


unravel

by Pomfry



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Child Abuse, Damian and Jon are princes, Implied/Referenced Prostitution, M/M, Politics, Ra's is terrible but what else is new, Runes, Slow Burn, Sun and Moon Kingdoms, assassinations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-04-20 07:37:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14256114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pomfry/pseuds/Pomfry
Summary: Perhaps, Damian thinks wryly as the wall crumbles down before him, we should not have gone to the festival.Jon is panting next to him, magic bubbling and stretching as he hurls spells at those chasing them, a vicious snarl on his lips. Beyond them the sun is shining, shedding light on the kingdom forever shrouded in darkness, and Damian feels warm at the sight of it.Home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> heeey whaddap my peeps. i've been sitting on this for a while now and i suppose it's finally time to let you guys see this.

Once upon a time, there lived two kingdoms. One basked in the rays of the sun, and their skin darkened to match the ground that they ran upon and that grew their crops. The other lived in shadows under the light of the moon and they were as pale as the stars they so admired.  
  
These two kingdoms were divided by a wall erected by their ancestors after a bitter and centuries long war, by the ancient kings when they could no longer bear the bloodshed of their people. They sealed the moon on one side and the sun on the other, and so it was meant to stay.   
  
And, once upon a time, there lived a boy with skin as dark as copper and eyes as green as the grass that covered the rolling hills of his home. His hands were worn from weapons and his tongue was as sharp as a blade. He was the prince, the grandson of the king. One day he went to the wall and went into a small hole in the wall, where he met a boy with a face as white as the clouds, hair as dark as night, and eyes the color of the summer sky; the young prince of the moon kingdom. Neither of their lives were ever the same again

 

\--

 

The sun prince adjusts the hood of his cloak as he hurries through the forest, feet silent on the leaves below him, the wall looming ahead of him, gray and foreboding as always. He ignores it, as he has since he was merely five, and climbs into the tunnel, breathing a little easier as he puts the stone back up behind him before turning around.

He takes a step back. There's a boy here, with skin as pale as milk and eyes wide.

"Who are you," the sun prince demands, hands twitching towards the poisoned daggers hidden his sleeves, and the moon prince blinks.  
  
"I could say the same to you," he replies, and the sun prince scowls.   
  
"I asked you first," he snaps, and the moon prince frowns.   
  
"I am the prince of the Moon Kingdom. I've never seen anyone like you before," the moon prince says, and the sun prince settles his hand on his thigh, where his sword was held.   
  
"I've never seen anyone like _you_ before," the sun prince says imperiously, and they stared at each other, surprise in their eyes.

"So who are you," the moon prince says curiously when he could stand the silence no longer.  
  
The sun prince stands straighter. "I am the prince of the Sun Kingdom," he proclaims, and the moon prince grins, his teeth white as the foam that crashed onto the shores.   
  
"We're both royalty," he laughs, and the sun prince gives a small smile at his childishness.   
  
"I suppose so," he says with a sigh, and crosses his arms. "But why are you in the hole in the wall?"   
  
The moon prince shrugs. "I was tired of everyone treating me differently. This has been my safe place for a few years now. You?"   
  
The sun prince sighs. "I am the same. Only I did not want to do my ceremony that declared me an adult."   
  
The moon prince blinks. "But you can't be more than twelve!"   
  
"I'm thirteen, thank you," the sun prince says sharply. "And to be fully recognized as an adult and a heir to the throne it has to happen."   
  
"We don't do that until we're seventeen," the other exclaims, shock evident in his face. The sun prince opens his mouth to reply when -   
  
"Sire," calls two voices at once, and the two princes start, glancing over their shoulders.   
  
"Want to meet again," the moon prince asks, catching the sun prince's hands in his own and leaning close.   
  
The sun prince looks anxiously behind him but nods. "Yes. I do."   
  
"Tomorrow?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
With that, they go back to their respective kingdoms, minds swirling with images of the boy from the kingdom that is not theirs to rule.

 

\--

 

The moon prince groans as his advisor grabs his wrist as they go back to the palace, the moon shining overhead and hitting the silver and iron perfectly. Normally, the moon prince would smile at the sight of it, because it is truly a beauty, but now he only frowns it. The sun prince - and how odd is that, for him to meet the prince of the sun - is so _different_ to everything he has ever known, and the novelty of the palace had worn off next to the boy with brown skin and eyes as green as the poisonous flowers that flourish under the moon.   
  
"You know better than to run off," his advisor scolds heatedly, and the moon prince grimaces. Yes, he did, but if he didn't sneak out he wouldn't have met the sun prince, so he can't really regret it.

"Sire," says a maid with eyes the color of crystals as she sweeps into a bow. "Your parents are waiting inside."  
  
"Thank you," the moon prince says, taking a deep breath before opening the doors.   
  
"My son," his mother cries out, and he braces himself for the hug.

In the end, he doesn't have to, because all she does is cradle his face in her hands and look at him.  
  
"What were you _doing,_ sneaking out like that," she demands, painted lips curving downwards, and the moon prince laughs uneasily, wrapping a hand around her wrist loosely.   
  
"I was just....I wanted a break," he says, and it's the truth but it won't be tomorrow. The knowledge sits heavy in his stomach, but the thought of seeing the sun prince again, of getting the opportunity to learn how those who sleep under the sun live is much too tempting to pass up.

"My little star, if you only said so," his mother begins and a large hand touches her shoulder lightly, drawing her short.  
  
The moon prince looks up as his father steps forward, the cape attached to his shoulders - he was seeing court today, the prince thinks absently - swishing around his feet. "Son," he says, voice deep and echoing around the throne room. "Do not do that again. You had the whole kingdom worried."   
  
The prince averts his eyes, gazes down at his feet in shame, even as his plans for the next night curl up in his heart, makes him start to smile in excitement.   
  
He's drawn into a hug, his father's hands on his back as his mother joins in. "You're young," his mother says quietly. "You want freedom. I understand. But please just tell us next time."   
  
The prince nods, wondering if the sun prince can feel pain like him, if he truly wears a glamour.   
  
He doesn't think so. The prince can feel magic, can taste it as lightning on his tongue, and he didn't sense any on the other prince.   
  
"Of course," he says instead, and his father squeezes him one more time before letting go.   
  
"It's late," his father offers. "Why don't you head to bed?"   
  
The moon prince leaps on the chance, nods as he inches away. "I am tired," he agrees. "I will go to bed now."   
  
"What about dinner," his mother asks, and the prince thinks fast.   
  
"I'm not hungry," he says, and runs out of the room, a bright grin creeping up his face as he closes the door behind him.   
  
Tomorrow, he sees the sun prince again. It's going to be _fantastic._

 

_\--_

 

The sun prince bites his lips as his grandfather stands, and he feels the weight of his inheritance more than ever, the weight of the crown that will be placed on his head within months.  
  
"So," his grandfather says, dangerously quiet, and the prince flinches minutely but refuses to step back. That's weakness and weakness is _never_ tolerated within the court. "You snuck out."   
  
"Yes, Grandfather," the prince manages, and pain blooms across his cheek as his king slaps him. His head snaps to the side, the silence reigning making the sound play over and over again.   
  
"Why did you sneak out," his king asks, and the prince takes a breathe to center himself.   
  
"The pressure was great," he answers, unwavering under Grandfather's disapproval. "I wished for a break."   
  
The gold of his grandfather's crown shines and the copper walls do the same. It's all an illusion, one of kindness and warmth. The palace is anything but kind.   
  
"If you want a break so fiercely," his grandfather says, smooth as silk, "then you shall stay in your room for a week with no company."   
  
The prince's heart skips a beat. That means he could sneak out and meet the moon prince. "Yes, Grandfather."   
  
"Make yourself scarce," the king sneers, and the prince does exactly that, wondering if the other prince has blistered fingers under his silver gloves, if he was using glamour to hide his golden irises.   
  
Tomorrow, he sees the moon prince again. He will learn what is the truth and what is only of legend. It's going to be enlightening.

 

\--

 

The next day, with the moon and sun high in the sky, the two princes carefully draws runes on their skin to make them unnoticeable, throw their cloaks upon their backs, and heads down to the wall, nervous and excited in equal measure.  
  
The sun prince gets there first, closing the entrance behind him and dispelling the magic lingering on his skin with a small burst of concentration. He waits for his fellow royal, idly scraping at the brick below him. He can feel the ancient magic pulsing around him, above him, in his very bones, and thinks, with some degree of scholarly fascination, of the layers and intricacies that the kings would have placed. They used regular brick, after all, but imbued each stone with powerful and lasting magic.   
  
It tastes like sugar and it hurts his teeth.   
  
"Hi," comes a young voice, and the sun prince looks up, startled, and the moon prince grins. It's as blinding as the sun, and the sun prince wonders just how that is when the moon prince has never seen the sun.

"Hello," he says in return, and watches as the moon prince wipes away ink on his hand and pushes a stone to cover his opening. The moon prince tears back his hood, shaking his head like a dog, and the sun prince remembers the myth of about those who live in the night, about how their hair was filled with clear poison. He reaches out and touches the moon prince's hair, expecting to die.  
  
The moon prince stops, staring at him, and the sun prince doesn't die. He blinks. "Huh," he says finally, and looks at his hand. There's certainly something clear on it, but it's merely water.   
  
"What was that about," the moon prince asks after a moment, and the sun prince wipes his hand on his pants.   
  
"I've heard a myth where those who live in your kingdom have poison in their hair," he replies, and the moon prince laughs.   
  
"And I've heard stories about how your veins are black from the magic you used in the war," he says, and the sun prince grins slyly, pushing up his sleeves to show his veins.   
  
"It seems that we've debunked two legends," he says, and the moon prince laughs again, sitting down beside him.   
  
"So it seems," he says. The magic inside him bubbles and stretches like bubble gum.   
  
The sun prince's teeth ache.   
  
"How do you do magic over there," the moon prince asks, and the other pulls out a dagger.   
  
"The runes are different than the ones we used when the wall was put up, but they have the same base," he says, and watches as the moon prince's eyes grow wide. "So this one means death, and this one means water. So when you put this dagger into water and activate the runes with a little bit of magic, you can poison the water and kill anyone who drinks it."

"Oh, wow," the moon prince breathes, reaching out to trace the runes carved into the blade. "That's really cool!"  
  
"But that's just with runes. With us, we're trained to do spells without speaking, to do magic as easy as breathing and to just imagine it. Of course, you have to twist the magic around you and inside you to make it happen, but," he sun prince shrugs. "It's useful, especially when you're an assassin."   
  
The moon prince wrinkles his nose at the mention of death but nods with an enthusiastic smile stretching on his lips.   
  
"With us, we have to say words. It can be anything, but as long as you remember what you said the first time you did the spell, you can do it. Our magic latches onto the words and makes them, well, magical. Of course, you have to put your magic behind them to make them work, but," the moon prince stretches his arms above his head. "It's effective and distracts your opponents because they're trying to figure out what spell you've called forth."

"Really?" The sun prince blinks a bit, imaging a world where you had to say words to use your magic. "That sounds cumbersome."

The moon prince shrugs. "It kinda is, but it's mostly fun. I know a few kids that have their fire spell be something like _you moron."_ His lips twists into a mild grin. "Mine's _I'm trying."_ With that, a small fire crackles to life in his palm, the light throwing his face into shadows. The sun prince flashes a smile and lights his own, and soon the two fires are leaping happily towards the roof of the little cave they created.

The moon prince lays down after mumbling a spell to keep oxygen in the air, propping his head up on his arms and gazing at the other prince. "What's your mom like," he asks, a merry twinkle in his eyes, and the sun prince stops tracing runes onto the walls.  
  
"My mother," he says slowly, thinking hard on just how to describe her. "My mother is overwhelming. She's deadly and fierce and her magic is like a snake. It coils around you and tightens and bites, and if she wants you dead, you're hitting the ground before you realize it." He smiles faintly. "She has long hair that reaches her back and she wears it free, not caring if she's in a fight. My mother can fill up a room and fade away a moment later. She's the perfect image of an assassin, of the model daughter. I'm not sure why she's not the heir."   
  
"Who's in charge?"   
  
"My grandfather. I suppose she told him she wanted to lead the armies when she was little and he made it so. She's always been his favorite." The sun prince's lips twitch up. "So I'm stuck with the crown."

The moon prince blows out a breath at his little fire, giggling when it leans away. "My mother was a commoner, but she worked at a high position which is where she met my dad. Only my granddad was in charge at the time and my dad was a recluse so she didn't know he was the prince. They met, became friends, and a few years down the line fell in love. When he brought her to meet his dad she nearly fainted. She didn't, but she smacked my dad upside the head. They got married and now she's the queen and somehow has a better grasp on politics than my dad."  
  
The sun prince huffs out a laugh. "That's not surprising. I myself have a hard time not understanding why I can't just stab the annoying politician in the throat when he's trying to trick me."

The moon prince flat out grins at that. "My dad's advisor has the same problem. He used to be the commander for the armies before my dad asked him to be his advisor."

The sun prince gives him a decidedly odd look. "He asked a soldier to be his advisor," he asks incredulously, and the other laughs.  
  
"Hey, at the time he was the smartest guy in the kingdom and my dad's best friend. My dad knew he was the best choice because he was knew the law inside and out. He was a detective before he was a soldier and was called the best. It's not surprising that my dad asked him to be his advisor."   
  
The sun prince shifts so that he's laying down on his stomach in front of the moon prince. "My grandfather has no advisor. He thinks that he can make all the decisions himself, and he can. He's never made a mistake that he couldn't turn into a victory." He sighs and makes his fire change into the shape of a cat - his cat, to be precise. "But I don't think I can do that. All I seem to do is make mistakes."

The moon prince nudges him. "Hey, as far as I've seen, you've made good choices."  
  
"You've never seen me at my home," the sun prince says waspishly, and the other grins.   
  
"I don't have to," he says cheerfully. "You seem like a nice person, and nice people generally make good ones."   
  
The sun prince rolls his eyes. "Whatever you say, _sire.”_

His companion shoves him, laughing as he flails around, the fire cat jumping around him. "Don't call me that," he complains. "I came here to escape that word!"  
  
"What, _sire,"_ the sun prince teases, and scoots away as the moon prince yells wordlessly, shaking his arms at him.   
  
_"Yes,"_ the moon prince shouts angrily, exasperation clear on his face, and the other prince snorts at it.

"Oh, I'm sorry _sire,"_ the sun prince says, and the other jumps to his feet, takes a step and -

Falls flat on his face.

 _"Ow,"_ he says plainly, and the sun prince bursts out laughing.

He can't remember the last time he laughed this much, he realizes, and as the moon prince picks himself up, cradling his nose and glaring death at his cloak - which he tripped on - and his laughter quiets as he stares. In court, you were only allowed the laughter of the polite and even then it needed an edge of danger, the whisper of _I can kill you in an instant._   
  
This - this isn't like that. It isn't even close. It's happy and unrestrained and he can't believe that he's doing it. He can't believe he's laughing this way, so close to his family, so close to those who could snap his neck if it meant a leg up, but then the moon prince turns his glare onto him, and it dies down a bit.   
  
His nose is red and crooked, and the sun prince reaches out with a glowing hand, wishing, wanting to heal, and his magic does just that. It's done in an instant, and he waves away the blood. It gathers into a ball that spins lazily, and he banishes it to the river in the forest.

"Thanks," the moon prince says, giving him a smile that's completely genuine, and the sun prince is thrown by it. You don't give smiles away unless it has the tail end of a blade.  
  
But...it isn't that way, for the moon prince, and he's suddenly consumed with the desire to see the way he lives.   
  
"Anyways, my dad is a complete ditz at times," the moon prince starts, and the sun prince blurts out -

"My name is Damian."  
  
The moon prince blinks at him, and Damian fidgets. You don't tell anyone your name unless you trust them because names have _power,_ and it itches at him, that this is something to lord over him, but -   
  
But the other is already grinning, his eyes crinkling as he answers with , "I'm Jon! Jon Kent."   
  
It's as though they're commoners, Damian thinks with amusement.   
  
"Damian al Ghul," he says instead, and watches as the grin gets impossibly wider and brighter.   
  
"Nice to meet you," Jon says joyfully, and reaches out a hand. Damian stares at it, confused, because with that he could break Jon's hand five different ways. Jon rolls his eyes. "You shake it, duh!" He grabs Damian's hand, shaking it firmly and swinging it every which way, and Damian looks at him in shock.   
  
Nobody else has been this - this gleeful in his presence, this carefree at Damian's face, and he finds himself smiling too. "Nice to meet you," he parrots, and Jon let's go, resuming his tale.   
  
"So my dad is such a forgetful person that _one day..."_   
  
Damian merely leans against the inside of the wall and watches.   
  
(When they leave, Damian can't help but ask, "Are we friends," and waits in silence, anxiety making his heart beat faster, because he thinks they are, but he's never had a friend before.   
  
Jon only grins. "Of course!"   
  
Damian relaxes and waves goodbye as he leaps out, tracing the runes on his skin and bringing them to life with a surge of magic that whirls around him.   
  
He thinks that he rather likes having a friend.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter lengths will vary because im doing this by perspective, not word count

Jon slips back into into his room with a crash and doesn't breathe until he's sure that everyone's gone. He does not want to be caught sneaking back in after yesterday, and so he gets under his bed, the runes on  his arms still active, and waits for ten minutes, until he starts feeling dizzy from the strain of keeping up the stream of magic, and rubs at them until they're smudged and gone. He gets back up, changes into clothes more or less acceptable for him, and walks out of his room. He ran into the person he was trying to avoid immediately because his luck is awful.   
  
_ "Sire," _ his advisor says severely, and any other day that would be enough for Jon to shrink back, but today he tucks his arms behind his neck and laughs, because he met the sun prince whose name is Damian and it was  _ awesome. _   
  
"Hey, Tim," he says breezily, and Tim stops short, a pained look coming across his face.   
  
"I told you not to call me that," he says, and Jon grins at him.   
  
"And I still do it, so who's winning her?" he chirps, and Tim swats at him tiredly.

"You," he says, and starts to walk since Jon kept on going. "But I'm going to win today because  _ you _ had a meeting with the lords and ladies today and you  _ missed it _ because you were off galavanting in the streets  _ again." _ By now, Tim look half manic, and Jon winces. "And  _ I _ had to explain why you were not there for a meeting that has been planned for  _ weeks _ now." The papers become crumpled up in his hands, and Jon watches in no small amount of horror. He's sure that those are important documents.   
  
"Tim," he says hesitantly, and Tim snarls at him.   
  
"So  _ you _ get to explain to your parents why  _ you were not here today,  _ and that is  _ final.” _ With that, Tim turns on his heel and marches away, leaving Jon to stare after him.   
  
"...He needs a holiday or something," he mumbles, and darts down to the barracks. His brother is  _ sure _ to give him an alibi.   
  
And if he refuses...   
  
Well. Let's just say Jon saw something on his birthday that he will not hesitate to use.

 

\--

 

His brother is polishing his sword when Jon comes slamming in, and he looks up, quirking an eyebrow at Jon's pants for breath. "You're out of shape, little brother," he says, and Jon glares at him.   
  
"You...try...running from...all the way...from my room...to here," he wheezes, and Roy, from where he's tying his hair into a ponytail with his bow across his legs, laughs at him.

"Shaddap," Jon says, and Roy snorts, picking up his bow and testing the string.   
  
"Tell me to shut up when you can hit the target," he says, not unkindly, and snaps the string, nodding when it made the right sound.   
  
"I can  _ so _ hit the target," Jon snaps, and Roy shrugs.   
  
"Whatever you say, your highness."   
  
"Enough," Jon's brother says as he stands, stern and commanding, and for a moment Jon can see the king he was going to be before he decided to become a soldier. "What do you need, Jon?"   
  
There no  _ time _ for beating around the bush, so Jon just blurts it out. "I need a cover story for today. Tim is mad and is making me explain to Mom why I missed a meeting, so can you please help me?"

His brother narrows his eyes. "Why did you miss a meeting?"   
  
"I...may have sneaked out?" Jon says it like its a question, and his brother groans. "Oh, come on, Kon, it's not like you don't do the same!"   
  
"Not two days in a row," Kon shoots back, and Jon  _ still _ can't regret heading out, because the way Damian laughed, the way he looked when he smiled, like it was something he wasn't used to, is magical, and that's coming from him.   
  
"Will you help me or not," he snarls, magic bubbling up inside him like the tide, and Kon sighs.   
  
"Yeah, I'll help you. Just calm down, your magic is giving me goosebumps."   
  
Jon settles, satisfied, and beams as Kon throws a hand over his eyes, mumbling about annoying little brothers. "Love you too," he says, sweet as cyanide, and Kon throws him a glare as Mom and Dad come tumbling down the steps, called by the way his magic was hissing.   
  
_ "Hate you," _ Kon hisses before whirling around with a smile. "Hey, Lois, Dad!"

"Why did Jon miss the meeting?" Mom asks briskly, and Kon gives a sheepish laugh.   
  
"Oh, he had a meeting? Sorry, I asked him to come with me today to train," he says, magic as if everything is normal, and Jon has never been more grateful for military training that makes you learn how to lie without your magic giving it away.   
  
Mom squints at him dubiously, but nods, and Roy coughs into his hand as they all fall silent.

"So. Jon, please come with me so that we may apologise and sooth the ruffled feathers of the nobles," Mom says, flicking her wrist. "Clark, stay with Kon. You need to practice your magic more, dear."   
  
"Yes, Lois," Dad says obediently, and, true to his word, stays put as Jon moves past him.   
  
"So he didn't train with you today, did he?" Jon hears Dad ask before the door shuts, and Jon's left alone with his mother.   
  
Not a good thing considering what he's done within the last two days.

"Come along," Mom says, striding forward, and Jon scrambles to catch up, nearly falling over. "I expect you to act as a prince, not as a ten year old, and you  _ better _ apologise with complete sincerity." She gives him a  _ look _ and Jon very carefully does not swallow.   
  
"Okay," he says, voice small, and she gives a sharp nod, taking a turn into the throne room, and Jon takes a deep breath, resolutely  _ not _ dreading the coming meeting, and goes after her, opening the doors to the meeting room.   
  
"My lords and ladies," he says, bowing a bit, and he can see them bow back as he straightens. "I was requested by my brother to train with him today, and so missed the meeting. I sincerely apologise; please do not think that I do not regard your opinions highly."   
  
A lady, young and with blonde hair tipped with red and blue, giggles. "Thank you, your majesty," she says, and,  _ oh,  _ now Jon recalls her name. Harleen Quinzel, prefers to be called Harley.   
  
He gives her a brilliant smile. "Thank you for being so forgiving," he says, and she gives him a grin.   
  
She's also very talented with a mallet, and the fact her lips are painted a bloody red makes him wonder if she had used it today.   
  
It wouldn't be surprising. The moon kingdom  _ is _ vicious and smart. On the night of the festival, when all the lights are gone except for the moon and stars, anyone can do anything. Nobody knows who is who, and Jon could be a commoner if he so desires.   
  
They live in darkness, for all that they try to bring light, and nobody can really forget that.   
  
But Jon gives her nod, doesn't give her any leverage, and goes to sit beside his mother, who sits regal in her dark purple gown dotted with Silence Flowers, the ones that make it so you can't talk ever again, the white prominent against her dress.

"Let's begin," Mom says, smoothing her skirt with a smile. It speaks of power, and for all that Jon hates politics and prefers to be as honest as possible, he grew up with people who can tear your mind apart with a few placed words, so he gives the same fake smile.   
  
He's never really gotten the hang of it, though, because it shows too much teeth, too much of a challenge, and Mom slants him a bemused look. Jon doesn't really care. They want to entangle his thoughts in their traps and he won't allow it. This is the best way he can show it, short of actually fighting them.   
  
Which is, as he's learned, not the correct way to deal with his problems.   
  
(He could easily take them, though. Magic and fighting has always come naturally to him, as easy as breathing, and the royal family is the best with magic for a reason. They have bigger reserves, more magical ability than others. It wouldn't be much of a fight.)

"What is happening through the kingdom?" Mom asks, delicate as a butterfly's wing beats, but everyone can hear the hidden  _ you want to help? Then tell me the truth. _

Roman Cenois, a Lord of high standing, clears his throat. The attention in the room automatically go to him, and Jon can see the way he soaks it up. The guy's never sat well with him, even as a kid, and now that he's able to attend meetings instead of just saying hello at parties or when he came as a guest, Jon still can't understand why beyond the obvious power lust.   
  
"My lands are plentiful," he reports, smug as ever, and Jon sighs internally as he starts to monologue. "And all of my citizens have paid their dues. Their crops are growing at an acceptable rate, and-"   
  
Lady Harleen groans, wild as ever in her refusal to conform to conform to society's expectations - a dangerous thing, Jon knows, and dreads the day when she decides that she's done with Lord Cenois - and slams her fist on the table, making the cups rattle. "We  _ know,"  _ she says, her eyes bright in her mischief, and Lord Cenois scowls at her even as she continues, "just put in your report. Her majesty just wants to know if something is  _ wrong,  _ right, My Queen?"

Mom's expression shifts towards amused, and she nods swiftly. "I'm afraid I do."   
  
Lord Cenois looks like he swallowed a lemon, and Jon smothers his snickers at the sight of it. Lady Harleen grins at him, her lips stretching a bit too high, and takes a sip of her wine. "So get on with it, Roman," she says, and Jon gapes at her; you don't use a noble's first name unless you know them personally, and Lady Harleen most certainly does not know Lord Cenois that well, judging by the way he scowls at her unrepentant smile.   
  
"I'm afraid I have nothing to report, then, your majesty," he says stiffly, and Mom nods.   
  
"Excellent," she says, as in control as ever, and looks towards Lady Harleen. "Lady Harleen, do you have anything to report?"   
  
For once, the Lady's smile falters, and she frowns heavily, crossing her arms in thought as she leans back in her chair. "Yeah. I do."   
  
Mom changes her posture minutely, the smallest inclination in angle that betrays her interest, and Jon finds himself doing the same. It's a rare occasion indeed that there is something to report, and an even rarer one that causes the carefree Lady Harleen to grow serious. But, Jon supposes, if there is anything to make her so, it would certainly be those under her protection.   
  
"As you all know, I run the sector of town that coincides with the Red Light district," she waits for the nods before she goes on. "My girls have been showing up beaten, always with the same wounds, and refusing to say anything. Two days later, they're dead." She leans forward, clasping her hands in front of her, lips pursed and brow furrowed. "This has been happening for two weeks now, and I've had my best detectives on it, but nobody really cares out the prostitutes. Then, a family turns up dead. The wife, the husband, and their seven year old son. Then another. The two husbands and their four year old daughter. I'm afraid that we have a serial killer on our hands, and I can't capture it on my own."

Jon can taste lightning, can feel the way her magic is grieving, the way it groans like an earthquake and he can feel the ache of her misery in his bones. Jon suddenly feel  _ old, _ like he's over a hundred and has watched everyone he loves die, and he has to fight back tears as her magic fills the air. "My girls are scared," she says, slowly standing, and slams her hands on the table. "My  _ people _ are scared. My detectives can't do anything because they can't track the killer. I  _ need _ help. Will you give it to me?" Lady Harleen looks at Jon and his mother, and Jon stands as well, before his mom can respond, and looks Lady Harleen in the eyes.   
  
"Of course," he says, and sees the relief that makes her face light up and her arms shake. "We will give you any assistance that you need and I will personally help."   
  
Mom is giving him a Look, but Jon can't really care, not when Lady Harleen gives him a smile that's true and small and reveals how young she is in comparison to the other nobles around her. "Thank you, my prince," she says softly, and Jon gives her a crooked grin that makes her chuckle as she sits.   
  
"It is of no consequence, my lady," he returns, and turns to face the rest of the council. "I will have to excuse myself," he says, and doesn't do anything when Lord Cenois' face shades towards anger. "I will make haste to the Lady Harleen's county and learn what I can of the case. Good day." Jon bows and heads out, the doors slamming behind him, and only then does he allow himself to pale and shiver.   
  
"A serial killer?" he asks himself quietly, fear festering like an infection, and closes his eyes. A serial killer near the hole, near  _ Damian _ , and Jon grits his teeth. He won't lose anymore of his subjects, and he won't lose his new friend. He  _ won't. _ He is the prince and  _ he will not let it happen. _   
  
Jon takes a deep breath, then another, and straightens, heading towards his room. He needs to write a letter. With some luck, he will be able to send it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jon you fool


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *finger guns* short chapter bc the next chapter is longish

Damian ghosts back into his room, cleaning his clothes with a dash of magic and banishing his cloak to his closet before grabbing his book and beginning to read. His guards check up on him every five hours, and he needs to look as though he is busy.

There is no need to invoke his grandfather's wrath so soon, no need to get thrown in the dungeons or publically punished because he decided to sneak out and meet with -   
  
Damian stops. He met with a friend. He met with a friend, who is the prince of the Moon Kingdom, the rival kingdom that his people has long since thought abolished, and  _ none _ of the old myths were correct. Jon does not have red hands, or does he have golden eyes from his greed. His hair did not kill him.

He's...only a boy with black hair and pale skin and summer-sky eyes.   
  
Damian smiles faintly, more on guard than he was in the wall, and remembers the way Jon had grinned, wide and wondrous, at Damian's magic, the way he had laughed - not mockingly, never mockingly - when Damian had fallen backwards in a sharp contrast to his usual grace.   
  
It's fascinating, this truthful boy, those authentic reactions, and Damian knows more than to let  him go. The moon court might be more calm than the sun court, but there is no possibility that it is not trenched in lies and treachery hidden behind false smiles. There is no way that it is not cut throat. And for the prince, for the one who will once rule it, to remain so untouched is....   
  
It's precious. It needs to be protected, and Damian might have blood staining and dripping from his hands, but he's quite possibly the best one Jon has.

Jon isn't helpless. Damian knows this, knows this as though it's obvious, instinctual, because a prince has never been left untrained, never been left powerless, and judging by how much his eyes had lightened as he used his magic - a common side effect; the more magic you use, the lighter in color your irises get - he certainly isn't without magic.

But still. Damian's never had a person to protect before, never had a person that he chose to protect without it being a mission. He has the duty to protect and defend his people, his king, and his mother, but those were never choices.   
  
This - this is a choice, and as Damian turns the page in his book, reading but not storing it to memory, he thinks that he likes having the choice.   
  
Damian isn't one to get attached. He can't be, and sometimes he looks at his mother and wonders if she loves him as well because she's always spoke of him as a weapon, and maybe that's the best way he can survive in this kingdom, but -   
  
But Jon spoke of his mother fondly. He told Damian tales of where she would leave her duties to chase him around the castle in a game that doesn't end, and Damian's mother has never done that. She's never taken time out of her day to tell him jokes, and his birthday presents were always challenges.   
  
_ You must mould your body into a weapon, _ Mother had told  him when he was only five and still holding a wooden sword, staring up at her after she had knocked him down, because she's never held back, not once.  _ You must make your heart into a blade and your hands the tools. Only then,  _ she had said, with a heavy type of weariness that had nothing and everything to do with the sword in her hands,  _ will you survive. _   
  
Back then, Damian had taken those words as gospel, as the words spoken by the ancient kings, and he has not questioned them, because his mother knows how to survive. Perhaps not to live, but how to survive, and in their world that is all they can hope for.

It is only now, after meeting Jon with his earnest grins, after hearing his claim that they only do the ceremony when they're seventeen, that he is doubting his mother.

Damian turns the page again, trapped in memories of the past, and sinks down into his chair. For all that he's as good as a prisoner, for all that he is merely a tool for death by his grandfather's orders, he does get treated nicely. His material things - books, canvases and paints, his charcoal and papers - are all high quality. Nothing else is worth being used by a prince, after all, and Damian can only imagine what Jon would say to  _ that. _ His friend seems to loathe the power given to him, the respect and fear it provides him, and Damian can understand. It does get tiresome, at times, to have his subjects cower at him.

A small flash of flame, a light gust of wind, and a scroll appears on his bed. Damian looks up from his book, mildly curious, and then a whisper of a voice makes it's way into is ears, and Damian blinks at the familiar voice.  _ Go, _ says Jon, murmur soft, and Damian stands, walking over to his bed. It's stamped with what looks like the sun but silver, and Damian thinks that it might been a stylised representation of the moon. That alone is enough to make him pick it up because no one in his kingdom, not even him, knows what the moon looks like. And nobody in the moon kingdom knows that the sun one still thrives. It could be only Jon, and so he unwrapped it, setting the dark blue ribbon his his pillow.   
  
_ Damian, _ it reads,  _ I hope this works. There's serial killer loose in the city, and it's hunting grounds are near the tunnel. I'm nervous about your safety, but I don't know if I can catch them, even with the adults helping. If I ask you for help, would you? _   
  
Damian sinks down onto his mattress, thinking it over. A serial killer is serious, he knows, and can come up with what Jon is feeling at the moment. Terrified, perhaps. Determined, definitely.  _ Furious _ comes to mind as well. Any ruler would be angry at someone harming their subjects, and that is what makes Damian vanish the ink on the paper and take his own quill to it.   
  
_ Jon, _ he writes,  _ do not be nervous about me. I can damn well take care of myself. And I will help if you so much as ask. Any prince worth their salt would help catch a murderer. _ He wraps it in golden ribbon with the sun on it around it as an afterthought.   
  
With a touch of magic and the image of Jon in his mind, Damian sends it back to where it came from, and returns to his book to wait for a reply.

 

\--

 

Jon's finishing up typing the strings on his cloak when he gets the answer to his letter. It shows up in a bright light that fades within a second and Jon's left blinking the spots from his vision as he stares at the scroll with a golden ribbon on it.   
  
"That was quick," he says to himself, hurrying forward to grab it. He only glances at the ribbon except to frown in confusion at the odd moon before he realizes that it is the sun, and opens it, the gold fluttering to the floor. He's done reading within one minute, and one minute later he's happier than he was one hundred seconds ago.   
  
Damian said he would help. That is, Jon reflects as he pulls on his boots made for hunting, a blessing.   
  
And it is. Damian is  _ smart, _ Jon can tell, and he can use that kind of smart on this case. It's hardly the first one he's had to work on, but it is the first serial killer. Jon isn't sure of what to do, but he's sure that Damian could help him.

Jon sighs and sends it to rest in his secret drawer, the one hidden under his socks with a mumble of  _ away _ and grabs the ribbon, squinting at it dubiously. Should he place it somewhere on his person as a good luck charm, though he doubts that Damian would appreciate it, or hide it away?  _ That _ is the question at the moment. Not the day, because that's who is the killer, but its the one of the minute.   
  
Jon shrugs and ties it around his wrist, the sun displayed proudly. He covers it after a moment, though, because Damian is his secret. Damian is something that should not exist, and Jon wants him to stay safe. Their friendship is something new and unexpected and entirely theirs and Jon wants it to stay that way. Damian is someone that Jon should have never met, and his skin sets him apart enough. The sun is different from the moon, blazing and scorching, and for Jon to have a ribbon that's not like the rest is damning enough.    
  
Jon only wants Damian safe.   
  
So he covers it up with one sleeve, and it burns his skin, makes him warm, and it's entirely what he thinks the sun feels like, entirely what he thinks the warmth of a star feels like.  Besides, he reasons with himself as he covers it with one hand, yellow and gold are uncommon, here, because it's the sun kingdom's colors. The only things with those colors are the poisonous flowers that grow near the wall, as though they had once belonged to the sun kingdom. It still doesn't make the pit in his stomach lessen, but then he thinks of Damian tying the dark blue ribbon around his wrist with his tiny, tentative smile and hiding it under his voluminous robes.   
  
The image makes him smile himself, and it grows into a grin. Damian, small, deadly Damian, with his dagger that can kill with a smidge of intent if he places it in water, who lives in the savage sun kingdom and fights the way they do, will help him if he asks, if he needs it, and the fact lets Jon sweep from his quarters, boots clicking on the marble floors, gives him the strength to close his eyes and mumble, "Let's go," with his magic whirling up and around him, the normal colors of red and dark violet changing to yellow and gold, and Jon opens his eyes in the Red Light district with Lady Harleen in front of him dressed in breeches and boots.

"Lady Harleen," he says, tilting his head politely, and she waves at him.   
  
"Bah, call me Harley," she tells him, and summons her mallet, placing it on her shoulder and cocking her hips out, hair up into a ponytail. "So, little prince. Ready to go capture a killer?"   
  
Jon inclines his head. “Ready when you are," he responds, brushing his hand against the ribbon and calling forth the courage that Damian so effortlessly wields. Harley laughs at him, turning around on her heel and marching away, Jon following sedately.   
  
He just want his subjects safe.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> early chapter bc my aunt's birthday was today and I'm so very happy for her!!!! Happy birthday Aunt D!!!
> 
> That said, this chapter deals with damian killing a man who abuses his power to take advantage of minors. It isn't explicit or anything, but you are more than welcome to skip it. I don't want to upset anyone.
> 
> Enjoy!!!
> 
> (Oh, and I've already written most of this ^-^ so you'll have weekly updates for a while yet!)

Damian's playing with the dark blue ribbon, twisting it between his fingers and watching in fascination the way the enchanted moon glimmers through its phases, when the knock on his door comes.

Damian pushes up his sleeve, tying it firmly around his bicep before letting it fall down and calls out a, "Come in."  
  
Perhaps it's arrogance, if it is an assassin, Damian has a spell in mind for them. It's a particularly nasty one, where your skin is flayed out bit by bit within two minutes, and Damina's had the opportunity to see it in action. It's rather painful.   
  
Instead, a servant walks in, her brown hair hanging to her waist and covering her face as she bows. "Your mother wishes to see you," she says lowly, and Damian curses on the inside.   
  
_Dammit,_ he thinks grimly, and dismisses the servant, who all but runs from the room a moment after he does so.

"What could Mother possibly want," he says to himself, and doesn't play with his sleeves as he walks to the only place she could be at this time of day.  
  
The training grounds, and he dreads what he will see.

Other servants mill around, doing their day to day duties, but they skirt out of his way, heads bowed down as he passes, and Damian severely dislikes it. There's no way for him to stop them from doing it, though, because they all fear him. They've heard what he's done in the name of his grandfather, in the name of their safety, and Damian may be only thirteen but he has enough deaths on his soul for him to go to hell. So he doesn't do anything, and they return to their jobs after he turns the corner, and Damian scowls hard enough for ten people. His family rules by fear and hard earned loyalty of a select few, not the masses. In Damian's family, there is no room for love. There is only unquestioning devotion and fighting, and it's been enough for two centuries.  
  
But Damian isn't blind, He knows that there are plots against him, knows that there are those in the Sun Court that wishes for nothing else but to bring Damian's family down. He knows that someday it will work.   
  
He thinks of Jon, of how the court works there, and wishes that his was a little less bloodthirsty.   
  
If anything, it would make the job of cleaning the palace easier.

Damian sighs and straightens this clothes - he always has to be presentable in front of his mother - as he reaches the door before opening it. The sounds of metal clashing together and magic reaching towards the sky make him on edge, and he stops in the doorway. His sandals scratch against the sand, and he breathes in the magic saturating the air, ignoring the way his teeth ache with practice born from necessity.  
  
There's not a lot of people who can register magic the way Damian can. Most can only get a chill from the magic, not taste it, not feel it. It's a gift, his tutors have told him time and again, awe in their face, one that only comes once or twice every five generations. Not even the King has it.   
  
_A curse, more like,_ Damian always thinks sourly, but keeps his mouth shut. Grandfather is bent on using it to his advantage, but frankly Damian doesn't care for it. You can tell if magic is happening just by looking. You don't need a sixth sense to tell you that it is.   
  
"Damian," comes a sharp voice, and Damian raises his head. Mother stands before him, dressed in practice armour with a very real sword in her hand, and Damian nods at her respectfully.

"Mother," he replies, and watches as she turns on her heel to block a strike to the back, a loud clang making him shift uneasily, but Mother simply pushes them back with a kick to the stomach, dust in her hair and something vicious in her eyes as she glares down at the soldier.  
  
"More practice," she orders, and they get up with a nod, vanishing before Damian's eyes, shimmering into nonexistence.   
  
Sugar makes teeth rot, and right now Damian thinks that his teeth are _very_ close to doing so.

"My son," Mother says, magic uncoiling, and Damian gives her the slightest smile that has the slant of fondness in it. She does the same, and then Damian is jumping back, sleeves flaring, and he prays that she doesn't see the flash of blue.  
  
Nobody wears blue.   
  
He lands in a crouch, dagger already in his hand and magic rising under his skin, and Mother laughs at him, venomous as the snake her magic resembles. "You've gotten rusty," she says, teeth flashing like the fangs on a serpent.

"I should never expect my mother to attack me," he retorts, bitterness in his chest, because Jon never once said anything about his mother attacking him. The most she's ever done, as far as Damian knows, is grounding him or sparring with him, but even with the sparring it was planned and accepted.  
  
It was nothing like this, and Damian wonders. not for the first time, if this is normal behavior for a parent to their child.   
  
She merely laughs at his conflict and charges forward, magic a dragon inside her, and Damian reaches for the ground. It rumbles like a river and Damian sinks below the rush, heading for the sweet flavor of magic with an undertone of poison that is his mother. He explodes beneath her, hands grasping for her feet, and this is the first time he's done this, so he's able to grab her and throw her, summoning his sword with a twirl of magic.   
  
He bares his teeth at her and she snarls back, disappearing, but Damian knows her deadly magic taste anywhere, and he brings his sword up in a second, and they're locked together in a stalemate. Mother might be the more experienced, but she isn't as in touch with her magic as Damian, nor does she have the a child's ability come up with ideas on the fly.   
  
"You've improved," Mother says, leaning back, and Damian doesn't lower his sword for a moment.   
  
"Are we done here," he demands, and she grins at him, all teeth.   
  
"Not nearly," she says, and pulls out a scroll. "A mission. It needs you."

Damian's heart sinks. A mission. Missions mean death, missions mean blood, missions mean Damian will have to lock up his thoughts and become everything his subjects fear him to be.

"I thought I was sentenced to not leaving the palace," he says gruffly, and she tucks her hair behind her ear.  
  
"Just because you're grounded," she tells him, soft and ever so dangerous, "doesn't mean you get out of doing your job."

“When do I leave?”

"In five minutes," she replies, already turning back to the troops and barking commands. Still, Damian answers as he leaves.  
  
"I'll be ready in two."   
  
By the kings, Damian prays this isn't what his ancestor hoped his kingdom would become after he died.   
  
If it is, then it only proves that they're killer through and through.

 

\--

 

Damian dresses in the traditional assassin's clothing - which is essential lightweight armor for mobility, creme colored clothing, a hood, and a porcelain mask that has nothing painted on it in his room, hating the way he knows that it will be soaked with red by the end of the night.  
  
He knows it's designed this way because his great great grandmother wanted to look like a scepter, a ghost, and her father had taken a liking to it.

Damian shakes his head, looking at the little blue ribbon on his arm. He should take it off, should burn it, should at least hide it, but -  
  
But if feels like a gift, one needlessly given, but a gift nonetheless.   
  
Damian isn't one to throw away a gift.

So he unties it and tucks it away into his thigh holster, where the most deadly poisons are, and doesn't breathe a word about it as he goes, the scroll fading away but the knowledge remaining.  
  
David Tomasiu, a noble of a neighboring town that is not yet incorporated into the sun kingdom fully. He is refusing to give taxes and has an affinity for young boys with no one else to turn to but him. _That_ is his target. Officially, he is being eliminated because he is not doing as the king asks, but Damian knows better. The town is too small for Grandfather to truly care, but even they have their limits to what they will do and what Tomasiu is doing is _well_ beyond those lines.   
  
He is being killed because of what is happening in his house, and Damian can't regret his mission, not anymore. There are some people who just need to die, and this is one of them. Damian has no doubt that the boys will be integrated into Mother's ranks and given the mental treatment they need. It's at times like this, with the name of a despicable person on Damian's hit list, that he remembers that his family is not that bad.   
  
He leaves the city in a flash of gold and stands tall at the edge of the town, and smack dab at the end, on the biggest house's steps, is a boy who looks haunted and frightened but knocking on the door anyways, and Damian's heart seizes in his chest before he's a blur, looking into the window.

The boy has Tomasiu in front of him, and the mayor looks young and handsome, but the way he grips the boy's shoulder makes Damian's lip curl.  
  
"Tommy," Tomasiu says, sounding delighted, and the boy - Tommy - shivers but stays still, eyes locked on the wall beyond Tomasiu's shoulder. "You've come to visit me again."   
  
"I...We need food. Maya is sick and she can't - I can't get enough food for her," Tommy says, breath catching in his throat, and Tomasiu nods sympathetically.   
  
"Yes, yes. You're one of my favorites, though," and here Tomasiu sweeps in, face an inch away from Tommy's, "you don't even have to ask."

 _By the_ **_kings,_ ** Damian thinks in disgust, _Tommy can't be more than nine!_   
  
Tommy doesn't move, but he does look Tomasiu in the eyes, and the mayor smiles, slimy and everything an adult _shouldn’t_ be, and, _oh,_ how did Damian not notice his magic before?   
  
Damian shivers and decides that enough is enough even as Tomasiu's hands travel downwards, and makes himself go through the shadows instead of crashing through the window _like he wants to,_ and wrenches Tomasiu back by the shoulder, throwing him into the wall as Damian smoothly puts himself between him and the boy.   
  
Tommy shrieks with fear and Tomasiu curses, magic flaring hatefully, and it makes the sugar taste turn into dirt. Damian takes a step forward and with a touch of magic makes his voice turn into something deep and layered with power.   
  
"David Tomasiu," he says, and Tommy looks at him like he's one of the kings that saved them from the war. "You are found guilty of treason."

Tomasiu gets to his feet, feet spreading into a stance. "What for?"  
  
Damian watches dispassionately as the man takes a step forward, and draws his sword, sending a wave of magic into the runes on it, making them glow. Tomasiu goes pale as he reads them.   
  
"For holding back taxes," Damian replies, taking a step forward, and it doesn't _matter_ that Damian is, at most, five foot and a half, Tomasiu backs off anyway because he can understand the runes.   
  
_Death,_ one says. _Blood loss,_ says another. _Magic_ **_gone,_ ** says a third.   
  
Normally, Damian would only activate one. For this man?   
  
He activates _all of them._   
  
"Plus," he adds carelessly, and makes Tommy vanish. "You've done something unforgivable and equally against the law." Tomasiu blanches. "Did you really think it would go unnoticed?"

Damian moves towards him and Tomasiu tries to escape. He does, and it's pitiful, it truly is. All Damian needs to do is give the magic repelling runes designed _specifically for Tomasiu_ a bit of energy, and  suddenly Tomasiu is cowering in a corner.   
  
Damian takes off his mask. "Hello," he says gleefully, and watches as Tomasiu vomits. "We're going to have _a lot_ of fun today, aren't we?"   
  
Tomasiu screams and Damian _grins._   
  
When Damian leaves five hours later, the creme is splattered with blood and he sticks Tomasiu to his house, burning a _he will never harm you again_ in gold onto his chest.   
  
His dick is on the kitchen table.   
  
Tommy stares at him from the corner of a store, a little girl with the same hair color and similar face structure clutching at his leg, and Damian doesn't let himself wave.   
  
He only vanishes. Like an avenging spirit after it's purpose for staying behind is done.   
  
He reappears in his bedroom and calls for a servant. He peeks through the door and starts to tremble when he sees just how _much_ blood Damian is covered in.   
  
"Tell my mother that the mission is completed and that clean up is ready to begin," he says, and the servant nods before leaving.   
  
Damian stumbles back and knocks into the wall, closing his eyes. How many children did that man make suffer? How many got past them until they finally took notice?   
  
Damian doesn't know. He only knows that he rid the world of a monster and that he saved a little boy only trying to survive and take care of his sister.   
  
_It will have to be enough,_ he thinks tiredly as he strips and starts a bath. It will have to be enough.   
  
It _has_ to be. Damian doesn't know what will happen if he doesn't let it be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I came up with the name Tomasiu at random. It is not related to Tomasi at all. I'm not sure, it's been a few months since I wrote this.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i made myself amused with the police officers here
> 
> my life has been a wild ride lately tbh. finals are coming up but!! after that i am F R E E. Unfortunately my family has been....not getting along well lately. It's mainly the adults, but it's enough to stress me out. Plus i did something stupid so I've been at odds with my mom, too. So thanks for commenting!! it's really made my days!!!
> 
> on the plus side, i'm writing a servamp and dc crossover! it's super fun to write, especially considering the fact that me and my friends have a headcanon that hugh is violently overprotective of his eves. so Gotham is driving him crazy. >:)
> 
> And, yes, i finally decided on a summary.
> 
> but enjoy!!

Jon isn't familiar with this corner of the city. Mom's never let him near it, citing that he's a child and shouldn't see what happens in it until he's at least fifteen.   
  
_ Well, _ he thinks, bemused as Harley starts heckling families, telling them to get inside because there's going to be a light show.  _ I'm ten and I'm here, so I'm winning that fight. _   
  
"C'mon, your highness," Harley shouts over her shoulder as she bounces towards the detectives' workplace, blonde hair swinging with every step. "We don't have all night to waste!"   
  
"Coming," he says loudly, hurrying his steps, and the door bangs open just as he comes up behind her.   
  
"Listen up," Harley yells over the crashes and cursing, and Jon looks around, curious despite himself. "Hey!  _ I said  _ **_listen up!"_ **   
  
Her magic comes down in full force, sucking the air out of everyone's lungs and making Jon jump. "I have the prince with me to work on the serial killer case! Which means that the army commander is going to be here!" All of the detectives freeze. "So you idiots better fucking hide whatever it is you want to hide!" She finishes it with a huff, kicking over a table that flies into the wall.   
  
The crash echoes throughout the room before everything explodes into chaos.

"Steve, help me hide the smoking runes!"   
  
"Where can I put this report that was due six months ago?"   
  
"I'M STUCK!"   
  
"GET YOURSELF DOWN, I'M NOT HELPING YOU GET RID OF THOSE POTIONS!"   
  
Harley starts cackling and Jon blinks. "But," he starts quietly, "Kon isn't coming with me until tomorrow."   
  
Harley snorts. "They don't need to know that. Besides, this is the best way for them to clean up."   
  
Jon watches as the man who was stuck to the wall falls off and lands on his face. "Whatever you say. I think that it's just causing a bigger mess."   
  
"When they finish it'll be cleaner than it has been in six months," Harley counters, and they stand and watch as a yellow dust - isobel powder, he remembers; it causes hallucinations - gets tossed into the air. Harley says, "Shield," and the powder doesn't affect them.    
  
It  _ does, _ however, hit everyone else and they start laughing hysterically.   
  
Jon stares at a drooling woman giggling and swiping at nothing. He turns to Harley. "Can we start on the case now?” he asks plaintively, and she ruffles his hair.   
  
"Sure thing," she says. "Come here." A box floats up and over to her and she grabs it out of the air. "Want to go to my place?"   
  
Jon shrugs. Anywhere will be better than here. "Sure."   
  
Harley grins with bloody red lips and says something Jon can't catch before they're whisked away by a storm of white.

 

\--

 

Harley's home is majestic and grand and unusually colored. Jon tilts his head at the purples and reds and picks and, oddly enough, creme colored bricks.   
  
He rubs at the ribbon on his wrist nervously. "Did you paint it this way?"   
  
Harley gives him a weird look. "I got this from another guy. He was bad news, and Brucie boy took him down way back when he was a detective. Dunno where he is now, but I got his title since I was listed as next of kin." She tugs open the doors and marches inside, saying, "Cook," to the kitchen, and the dishes start up.   
  
"Whaddaya want to eat?" she asks, and Jon shrugs.   
  
"Blackberry strudels?"   
  
Harley whistles. "You heard him! Get cooking!" A spatula opens up grabs a basket of blackberries, and that's all Jon sees before he's tugged into a room with a couch and a large middle table. "We have a lot to cover and not a lot of time before he strike again," Harley explains hurriedly when Jon shoots her a dirty look.   
  
She covers the table with photos and reports and theories and shows him a picture of a girl in her late teens. "First victim. Her name was Marchel, aged eighteen. She showed up with cuts on her arms and J branded on her right hand." Harley's jaw locked. "I healed her, kept her at the home she was staying at and thought nothing of it. Plenty of things happen during business hours. Two days later, one of the younger girls went upstairs to tell her breakfast is ready and they see her like this." She hands him another photo, and Jon already feels sick. Her skin is flayed off and her face is set in pain and horror. Her lungs look like they've been carved open and she's missing her heart.   
  
J is burned onto her insides.   
  
Jon can't believe the two photos are of the same girl. Machel had pretty brown hair that went past her shoulders, a sweet smile, green eyes - _ like Damian, _ something inside him whispers - and freckles.   
  
After...After she had none of that. Nothing at all.   
  
Jon stares down at the pictures, bile in his throat as he looks up. Harley's arms are wrapped around her stomach, nails digging into her sides.   
  
"Harley?” he asks in concern, and she shakes herself from it, uncurling and grabbing two more photos.    
  
"Cleo. Thirteen. She wasn't allowed to do anything but kiss them on the lips and maybe do a handjob if another girl was there to make sure the person she was getting off didn't take things too far. Three days after Machel, she shows up with the same injuries. I keep her here. Two days later, I go upstairs to tell her I got her the book she was wanting and see her the same as Machel."   
  
Cleo had red hair and brown eyes and a mischievous grin under glasses. She was the same age as Damian. Jon feels gutted.   
  
"And...and the last one?" he asks, not wanting to know, and Harley gives him a somber smile.   
  
"Kanna. Fifteen. Hoped to go to school without being made fun of for what she did to survive. Showed up. I kept her  at a friend's house with guards stationed around her door. Two days later, my friend goes to check on her, finds the guards knocked out and Kanna dead."   
  
Kanna had curly blonde hair and clear blue eyes and a shy smile. Damian has a smile like that.   
  
Jon sets the photos down carefully, like they'll combust into flames if he doesn't.  "And the families?"

At that, Harley's bitter and angry smile turns into a frown. "First family was the Skans. No warning about these ones. The father was a medical guy at the local clinic and the mother was a teacher. Their daughter was just starting school." She sighs, heavy and sad. "Mom doesn't show up for work with her daughter and Dad doesn't show up at clinic for a meeting. Friends head over and see them."   
  
She hands him two photos again. One is of a typical family photo. The mom had wavy auburn hair and hazel eyes and she looks like she's laughing with her daughter about something. The father had a brown mustache and hair and gray eyes. He looks aggrieved but loving. The daughter had wavy brown hair and hazel eyes.   
  
They look...happy. Uncaring of the world's troubles. Jon traces the daughter's face with a finger lightly. She was innocent.   
  
The other photo is horrific. It makes him bend over and puke, makes him start to cry and gasp for breath because -   
  
Because the father was torn limb from limb but he still looks like he's reaching for his family, his mouth set in a shout that  _ has _ to be his daughter's name. His chest was torn open and J was there, just like with the girls. The mother was exploded, her guts on the floors, on the walls, and her head was on the bookshelf by the living room, still screaming. And...and the daughter was dissected. Her arms, her stomach, her face - everything was cut into. She died crying.   
  
On the walls, there's writing.  _ I'm  _ **_back!_ **   
  
Jon throws the photos to the ground and screams, his magic sparking to life and heart beating fast.   
  
_ I'm  _ **_back!_ **   
  
He can't breathe. He can't - every time he tries, he can't, because this person is attacking his  _ subjects, _ is killing them for no other reason than to tell people that they're  _ back - _   
  
Jon throws up a hand and snarls out, " _ Find. Him." _

It's a new spell, and his magic leaps at the chance, dancing as wisps and stretching and bubbling and Jon waves his arm, magic flaring deep inside him.  _ "Go." _   
  
And the wisps do, zipping out of the windows, through the doors - they're magic. Pure magic made of fury and agony and determination wrapped up into one, and Jon doesn't doubt that they will do what they were created to do.   
  
Jon collapses, hyperventilating and exhausted and oh so ready to  _ kill _ whoever it is who is murdering his subjects.   
  
His ears are ringing. His magic reserves are aching. Jon blinks heavy eyelids and tastes lightning.   
  
"Jon!"   
  
Jon blinks. He tugs at the ribbon on his wrist - Damian, Damian, Damian the sun prince with dark skin and a cautious laugh, Damian gave it to him - and shakes his head.

"Jon!" Hands. Those are hands that are shaking his shoulders, making his head go back and forth, but he's just so tired. "What did you  _ do _ to him?"   
  
Jon thinks he knows that voice. That's - that's Kon. That's his big brother.   
  
Jon's magic is drained. That hasn't happened in a couple years now. He's forgotten what it feels like.

"Kon," he whispers, and suddenly familiar river-rush magic is surrounding him, wrapping him up and gently giving him it's strength, and Jon slumps into his big brother's chest. "Kon, I'm gonna find 'em."   
  
Kon runs his hand through his hair, pulling him close and tucking his head beneath his chin. "I know you are."   
  
"New spell," Jon says, rambling, and he's still playing with the ribbon, and he freezes. What if Damian tries to find him after feeling his magic react like that?   
  
Jon's magic reserves are almost dry, but he grits out, "Hurry," towards his wisps, and they purr back that they almost have him.   
  
Almost, almost.   
  
"Don't lose him," Jon breathes, eyes locked on the wall, and river-rush magic starts to feed into his. "Kon?" Kon hums. "Who's Joker?"   
  
Harley makes a strangled sound, impact magic thrumming nervously. Kon clutches him tighter. "Lady Harleen, send a message to Bruce.  _ Now." _ Harley runs off to do just that, Jon frowns up at his brother.   
  
"Don't be mean to Harley," he says, still reprimanding, because he should still be the polite one.   
  
Kon chokes on a laugh. "Yeah, okay," he answers, voice strangled, and with a swirl of magic, smoke-and-mirrors magic is there. Jon makes a happy noise, lifting his head.   
  
"Uncle Bruce! Joker is back! He's the serial killer!" In his mind's eye, Jon can see everything his wisps can.   
  
Uncle Bruce growls and vanishes again. Jon pouts and closes his eyes, giving all of his strength to his wisps so they can find Uncle Bruce and bring him to the one  _ who dared to hurt his subjects. _   
  
Jon's lips curl up in a sorry excuse for a snarl, but the rage is enough for one of his wisps to dart forward and show him where Joker is. His wisps run out of magic right as Uncle Bruce throws the first punch, and Jon passes out, knowing that Uncle Bruce will get him.

 

\--

 

Jon wakes up to someone dropping a pillow on his face. He groans and drags it off, and, yeah, okay, he did something stupid and his magic is drained because of it, but that doesn't mean they can  _ wake him up. _   
  
"Jon." Quick as a whip and twice as painful, and Jon shoots awake, staring in shock at Damian, who is standing beside his bed in golden robes and a dark blue ribbon held tightly in his hand.   
  
Jon sits up. "Damian," he gapes, and Damian shakes his head, smacking Jon on the top of his head.

"Don't you  _ ever _ do that again.  _ Ever,"  _ he says tightly, and Jon ignores the sting to stare.    
  
"I - What are you  _ doing here," _ Jon hisses, and Damian rolls his eyes.   
  
"One of your wisps slipped into the wall when I was in the tunnel and tugged me inside the moon kingdom before it died. I figured you wouldn't make a wisp without good reason and followed your magic trail. I ended up seeing you go unconscious and went to where your magic trace was strongest and stayed in here until everyone left," Damian says, and he did not say  _ idiot,  _ but it was strongly implied.

"But - Didn't anyone notice you?" Jon asks, at a loss, and Damian snorts.   
  
"No. I have runes that make me appear like I'm one of you," he says, showing Jon his ink streaked wrist. Then his face turns slightly nervous, and he says, "Should I have not come?"   
  
"No!" Jon lunges forward and grabs Damian's hands. "No, I like that you're here! I'm just worried about your safety!"   
  
Damian looks annoyed, now, but it's infinitely better than the uncertainty from only a moment ago, and so he doesn't feel guilty. "And I told  _ you _ that I can take care of myself!"   
  
Jon grins at his friend, and for all that the moon is cold, he feels something warm slide into his chest when Damian only shakes his head fondly.   
  
"So," Jon starts. "What do you want to do since you're here?" He tries not to look hopeful, and thinks he mostly succeeds when instead of scoffing, Damian just appears thoughtful.   
  
"I...saw this tea place on my way here," he says slowly, and Jon does  _ not _ grimace at the thought of tea.

Then, he realizes just what place Damian is talking about, and a light bulb blinks to life above his head. "Do you mean The King's Tea? Little place with a crown on a tea cup?"   
  
Damian nods warily, but Jon only grins. "That's fantastic! They have awesome hot chocolate, and their desserts are-"   
  
_ "No sweets,"  _ Damian yelps, and Jon squints at his friend in question. Said friend turns red and crosses his arms over his chest. "I register magic as sugar," he says, as though it's paining him. "The more magic, the more sugar. As such, I despise any and all sweets."   
  
Jon makes a noise of understanding in his throat. "I register magic as lightning," he offers. "It doesn't taste well, but it's made me hate lightning spells. It's cool, though. They have savory things and tart foods. I'll just get my sweets amd you get your regular food and I can tell you about the absolute  _ nightmare _ my night has been." Jon shivers and Damian grins.   
  
"That's...acceptable," he says, and Jon punches the air in victory.   
  
"Alright," he cheers as he gets out of bed and heads over to his closet, looking for clothes he grew out of a year ago. By the kings, Damian is so  _ short. _   
  
"We have to get you changed. I know that you have some fancy runes, but this is for my own piece of mind so will you just humor me?"

Damian walks up beside him, eyeing a few pieces of clothing that he finds a bit odd. "Okay. Do you have anything loose?"   
  
Jon shakes his head. "No. But I can lend you one of my shirts to make it loose." Damian tugs at his long and open sleeves before nodding. Jon pulls out some breeches from last year and a shirt from this year and shoves them into Damian's arms. "Hurry up and change, we need to leave soon if we're going to get there before the lunch rush," he says quickly and smiles very faintly at Damian's bewildered expression.   
  
"You know I'm older than you," Damian snaps, and Jon rolls his eyes.   
  
"Yeah, but I'm taller," he retorts, and Damian snarls.   
  
"Look,  _ boy,"  _ he says crankily, and that's when the knock on Jon's door comes.

They both freeze.   
  
Jon's the one to react first, shoving Damian in the closet behind him and closing the door silently before slipping back into bed before the third knock.   
  
"Come in," he calls, and Tim walks in, clutching at scrolls with a distressed and furious look on his face. Jon would not be surprised to find someone running and screaming from him soon. A distressed and furious Tim made for a stressed and  _ I don't  _ **_care_ ** Uncle Bruce, which is a very dangerous thing.   
  
"What is it?" he asks, testing the water, and Tim tightens his grip on the scrolls.   
  
"It would seem," he says testily, enunciating every word. "That the Joker has escaped."   
  
"What," Jon says flatly.   
  
"Joker has escaped," Tim snaps, and Jon gets to his feet.   
  
"Call in the army, call in Uncle Bruce, call in Harley, call in  _ everyone. _ I will  _ not _ stand by and let my subjects die again.  _ “Is that understood?" _ Jon glances back at Tim, who is smiling, wide and menacing.    
  
"Of course, sire," he says, easy as you please, and  _ that's _ when Jon remembers why he picked Tim as his advisor besides his organizing skills and familiarity.   
  
There's something dark in one Timothy Drake, and  _ that _ is why Jonathan Kent chose him as his advisor.   
  
They leave the room together, leaving a prince with a sword and new hatred burning in his heart behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> joker can fuck off :)))


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy mother's day!! Day early update bc of it!

Damian can't breathe through his anger. He's seen the photos, saw just what Joker was doing before the advisor - and how odd was that, to see the advisor fighting with his fists and little else - burst in, and he's escaped.   
  
This  _ cannot _ be allowed to stand. It  _ won't. _ Jon will burn himself out trying to bring this man down, and then Damian will lose his only friend. Damian looks down at the bag he had brought with him.   
  
He has the standard weapons count with him along with his assassin outfit. He has runes pre drawn onto slips of paper designed to catch flame after he sends another wave of magic into them.   
  
And -   
  
And he has his sword.   
  
Damian sighs and reaches for his bag. Looks like two are going to die by his hand today. Somehow he can’t regret it like he usually does.

 

\--

 

Jon marches into the throne room, magic a black cloud around him and teeth bared. He's pale and sweaty and still so  _ tired _ but  _ they let the man who did those things get away. _   
  
He throws the doors open and everyone goes silent as he walks inside, Tim a step behind him. Uncle Bruce and Mom and Dad and Kon look furious and three guards look frightened.   
  
Jon's dressed in clothes that have blood on them after he coughed it up and his magic snaps like a whip in the quiet.   
  
"Why," he says, eyes narrowed, "did the Joker escape?"   
  
"I - My prince," one starts, and Jon fixes him with a burning stare. "We let him out," he admits, and Jon takes a step forward, danger in his stride and pure  _ rage _ in his veins.   
  
"Why? Did you not see what he did to those families? To those girls," Jon demands, heart tumbling and aching. "Do you not  _ care?" _   
  
"I. We couldn't help ourselves," another guard says, and Jon stops short. That sounds like control. "Our hands moved without our consent."   
  
That is  _ definitely _ control. It's been outlawed for years now. Jon's only encountered it once, when he was five, and he can barely remember it.   
  
He turns towards the last guard. "Speak the truth," he commands, and watches as his magic takes over.   
  
"He threatened my sister. She works for the detectives under Lady Harleen," he says unwillingly, and Jon takes a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks, temper rising. "Or Lady Harleen?"   
  
The guard wordlessly shows him his wrist.  _ Do not tell, _ it says, and Jon sighs heavily.   
  
"Okay, whatever. Do you know where he is?"    
  
The guard shakes his head and Jon growls at him before turning to his family. "Send out search parties. You know what he looks like? Give them descriptions. You know what his magic does when dormant? Tell them. We need to find this man, and I want him alive. Take any precautions you need to keep him contained." His tone is harsh and cruel, but Jon doesn't  _ care. _ "I'll send one of my wisps with each group. They  _ won't _ fail." Abruptly, Jon registers that he sounds like Kon when giving orders, and thinks that he shouldn't. But the Joker forced the matter on him.   
  
"Uncle Bruce. You know how he is, how he fights. Tell everyone."   
  
Uncle Bruce nods, and Jon grins dizzily. "Okay," he says, then again with more energy. "Okay. We can do this." Magic springs to life on his fingertips, red and blue and gold streaked in it, and Kon makes a noise, lunging forward, but Jon's already said the spell. "Find him," he says, watching as ten wisps spark into existence instead of the fifty like last time. He wraps them up in anger and devotion and they dart away, leaving after images. Jon blinks and starts to crumble to the ground. He might have put more magic in those than he should have.   
  
"You stupid, loyal idiot," Kon tells him as he grabs his shoulders to steady him. Jon simply grins at him.   
  
"I'm fine," he says cheerfully, a shade of bloodlust in the angle of his smile "I can go with Uncle Bruce."   
  
Dad and Mom start to protest, but Kon only nods. "Of course," he sighs, and Jon stands, that blue ribbon still on his wrist.   
  
"Let's go," Jon says, a terror with sick pale skin and a grin that promises pain. "We don't have a lot of time."

As soon as he says that, a rune blooms to life beneath his feet, awash in purple, and Jon gasps as the floor just - tilts.

 

\--

 

It is probably not a good idea to show up in light colors and kill Joker. Damian is aware of this, despite the fact that he doesn't understand why they don't wear colors like that.   
  
Damian is aware of this, and so he takes precautions, making the creme a dark green and putting on his mask after spelling it a shimmering silver. He grabs his sword, his daggers, poisons, and runes before slipping out of the window, keeping to high ground. Joker had magic, certainly, and although it still tastes like sugar, the way it felt made Damian want to crawl out of his skin.   
  
He's not about to forget what it felt like any time soon.   
  
Just as he's about to slip into the dungeons, shouts ring out, and that rotting, dead magic runs away, zig zagging and Damian follows silently for a few minutes. Jon's magic is bubbling and stretching in agitation behind him, but Joker is right here. Damian will not waste this chance to end a pathetic excuse for a human being.   
  
Then, Joker's magic spikes and he starts cackling.  _ He's activating a rune,  _ Damian realizes with a jolt, and the ground trembles  below him, the palace tilting to the side with a groan. Jon's magic rises, popping angrily with a hint of fear, and Damian snarls, jumping down in front of Joker.   
  
"Oh!" Joker sounds absolutely delighted at the sight of him. "Are you going to kill me?" He says it like it's absolutely ridiculous, but Damian has poisons he doesn't have a resistance to, runes he can't read, and very,  _ very _ sharp blades.   
  
Damian grins.   
  
"Indeed I am," he replies, and draws his sword, adding a touch of will to the runes. They glow a fierce and happy yellow, and Joker squint at them. "You won't be able to read them."   
  
Joker scoffs. "I know that -"   
  
He's cut off by daggers landing in his shoulder blades. He chokes on his words and falls. "Those are coated with poison," Damian laughs, crouching down beside him. "One you haven't developed immunity to."

"You think you're above death," Damian says quietly, leaning in close. "You think that you're truly insane and that everything is a joke,  even dying." Damian slams a fist into his stomach. "Nobody is above death."   
  
Joker wheezes, eyes widening, and Damian doesn't give an inch. "You killed innocent people, you killed children so that people will pay attention to you. Well, you got your wish. I'm paying attention. Aren't you happy?"   
  
This is the man who almost made Jon burn through every last drop of magic in him, almost made Damian's only friend kill himself in his grief fueled attempt to catch him. He killed children, killed girls only wanting to make a living, killed people who helped others. Damian will never forgive him. "Aren't you  _ happy," _ he hisses. Joker shakes and shakes. With fear or laughter, Damian doesn't know and he's doesn't care. "I don't have a problem with killing you."   
  
Damian raises his sword, runes flaring, and it goes down in a graceful arc.

Joker's head rolls away, his face set in pain. Damian stands, drawing out the poison from Joker's bloodstream with a trickle of want and takes out a skin designed specifically for this, putting the poison in it. He grabs his daggers and kicks Joker in the stomach. It only makes the blood steadily dripping out of his neck flow a bit faster but it's  _ extremely _ satisfying.   
  
He pulls out a small scroll, writing a small message.  _ He's dead for good. Next time, don't be so hesitant in killing the bad ones, _ he pens in a dark red, and places it next to Joker's head.   
  
He turns on his heel and goes back to Jon's room, whistling a little all the while.   
  
It's scary, how accustomed he is to death, to killing, but Damian can't bring himself to be upset about how easy he look the life of Joker. His magic felt dead. He was a dead man walking, a corpse only living through magic, and Damian had put him to rest.   
  
Hopefully.   
  
Either way, he's dead and Damian did it. He  _ chose _ to do it, and it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. Either way, Damian killed him, cut off his head with no thoughts as to an alternative. He was just so  _ angry.  _ His stomach rolls and bile rises and Damian stops by a tree, bending over and panting, eyes wide.   
  
Damian ends up throwing up and taking the long way to Jon’s room.

 

\--

 

"Jon!” Kon shouts, and they're gone in a whirl of magic, a river surging forward, and Jon could only catch Uncle Bruce's scowl and everyone's alarmed faces before the next thing he sees is the forest around the palace and his home slumping to the side.   
  
Jon's heart rate skyrockets. "What was that? What was that rune?"   
  
Kon runs a hand through his hair, looking tired. "That," he says, "was the rune for disrupting the levels of the earth. One side went up and the other went down."   
  
Jon gapes at his brother, twisting around to stare at the palace.  _ "What?" _ He can hear the screams and it  _ hurts _ . He should be there, calming people down and wading through the chaos. "Is there a rune for that?"

Kon grimaces. "If there wasn't, then how did that happen?"   
  
Jon glares at him. "That doesn't help! Why did you take us here instead of anyone else! I know how to defend myself! You should have taken Tim!"   
  
Kon growls and punches a tree, and Jon can  _ taste _ the ozone gathering around his fist. "Jon, you're my  _ kid brother! _ And the Crown Prince! It's my duty as your big brother and the commander of the armies to make sure that you survive, so that we have a ruler. Nobody else matters  _ except for you." _   
  
Jon takes a step back, face pale. "That doesn't mean you choose me instead of Dad!" he shouts, magic rising like the tide, and Kon makes a sound of deep frustration.   
  
_ "Yes, _ it does! We need to have a king, and you may be a kid, but, dammit, it's the law to protect the heir over the king at all costs!  _ Dad _ made that rule when I was born, and nobody has changed that. So, yeah, that  _ does _ mean I choose you over Dad!"   
  
Jon chokes on his tears, worry and fear writhing in his chest, because he isn't worth that. He isn't worth being chose over the king, over  _ Dad. _ He's only ten. He doesn't want to outlive him. "And - and Joker is still out there," he says, voice strangled, and the tears he had been so desperately trying to hold back slide down his cheeks.   
  
Kon sighs, gathering Jon up in his arms like he's four. "Dad's fine. Everyone is fine, I promise."   
  
"You can't know that. You can't sense magic, you can't feel their magic," Jon says quietly, burying his face into Kon's shoulder.   
  
Kon places a hand on his back and the heat makes Jon's heart slow. If he lost everyone else, then he'd still have his big brother. He'd still have Kon.   
  
"I can't," Kon agrees. "But you can. So can you tell if they're alive?"

Jon sniffs but reaches out, looking for his family. Uncle Bruce's smoke-and-mirrors is flickering angrily. Tim's hummingbird wings is beside Mom's music notes. Dad's steady-as-a-mountain is off by himself.   
  
They're all  _ fine. _   
  
Jon breathes a sigh of relief and snuggles closer, eyes closing. His wisps had dissipated when the ground had shattered and he was already low on magic. "I'm tired," he says, and Kon hums, petting his head as though he's a dog.   
  
"I know. Go to sleep." And with a touch of magic, Jon slips off to a restful sleep.   
  
(Damian's okay, too. Jon had felt his flame to the side of them, as steady as that on a candle.   
  
Everyone is  _ fine. _ That's all Jon can ask for.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is. is anyone reading this.

Jon's curled up on his bed when Damian enters the room, hands trembling with an emotion he doesn't want to identify. So he doesn't. He thinks that he can afford not thinking for a few hours. He should - should head home, now. He  _ should _ because he's been gone longer than he should have been, been gone longer than he planned, and the threat to Jon has been eliminated. He should go home, should go back to that cold and golden palace, where a crown inlaid with rubies and emeralds waits for him, but -   
  
But he's exhausted. He's  _ worn out _ more than anything, ready to drop, and he thinks -   
  
Well. He thinks that he can stand not thinking for a few hours. Just so that his magic can settle. Damian's never felt his magic, never been able to, but he'd think it would be like poison, killing and infecting without hurrying.

He tears off his uniform, grateful that he kept his robes on for additional protection, decides it would take too much energy to clean it, and throws it into the closet, yawning wide as he climbs into the bed.   
  
This isn't unusual for Damian to do this; he gets into the cots of his fellow assassins often enough, and nobody cares because it's normal. Jon wakes up, briefly, eyes unfocused, and Damian smiles, very faintly. "Joker's dead," he says, and it's a whisper, a murmur, as though it is a secret, and Jon blinks before nodding and closing his eyes again.   
  
"Thanks," Jon replies before dropping back off to sleep. Damian stares at the ceiling and tries to think through the events of the day.   
  
He doesn't get far before he, too, falls asleep as well.   
  
There's a man with his head separated from his body in the woods., There's blood on Damian's clothes. He doesn't stay awake like he usually does after a kill.   
  
Instead, he drifts off without a care in the world.

 

\--

 

The sharp rapping on his door is what wakes him up, and the fact that flicker-flame of Damian's magic is no longer by his side is what makes him  _ stay _ awake. Jon blinks and stares sleepily at the moonlight drifting through his windows, lazily reaching out his his senses to see if his friend was still in his kingdom. They  _ were _ going to that tea shop today, because....   
  
Because…

“Sire, the Joker is dead," a servant proclaims behind the door, and Jon falls out of bed, train of thought lost.   


_ That's _ what Damian told him last night. Joker is dead, most likely by Damian's hand. It makes something sour curl in his stomach but he finds himself relieved. Joker is dead, which means that a dire threat to his kingdom, to his subjects and family, is gone.   
  
Jon doesn't like death. Not at all. But this is something that he can excuse. Just this once.   
  
Still. It makes him grimace and his stomach roll, and a knock comes again.   
  
"Sire?"   
  
"Yeah, okay," Jon croaks out, stumbling to his feet and opening the door. 'I got it. Joker's dead. Can I see the body in about ten minutes?"

"Of course, sire," the servant says demurely, inclining his head and sweeping down the hallway, probably to go tell some maids off for gossiping.   
  
Jon rubs at his forehead, sighing heavily. He's so tired, and by the kings he just wants to sleep. He wants to be  _ Jon _ for a bit, not  _ Prince Jon. _ But the kingdom will not wait for anyone, not even a ten year old boy, so he goes over to his dresser and pulls out some clothes.   
  
It's going to be a  _ long _ day. He can feel it.

Jon eyes the fabrics in his dresser, a kaleidoscope of silver and blue and gray, and decides that they aren't fancy enough. Not today, not when they're probably going to make a statement about Joker's death. His closet is filled with fancy things, though, along with clothes that are just a little too small for him.   
  
But, hell, he wants to be comfortable. And if he's visiting a dead body - well. He'd best be wearing something expendable with this clothes he's going to wear later in a bag, spelled against wrinkles and other things.

There's only so much he  _ can _ wear that's suitable for going to see a corpse and still befitting of his station, and so he picks out dark gray pants and a loose purple shirt. There. Fancy enough for a prince - he hopes - and most certainly soft enough that he won't be wanting to claw his skin off the whole day.

"Jon," calls a voice, and Jon groans, because he knows that voice.   
  
"Come in," he says tiredly, and Dick Grayson waltzes into the room, grin bright enough to rival the sun - or so Jon thinks since he's never actually  _ seen _ the sun - his clothes fancy enough to make Jon close his eyes in shame of his choices.   
  
"Jon," Dick says, delighted and acting as though he wasn't the one who  _ came here. _ "Do tell me that you've heard the news!"   
  
Jon makes a huff of disgust, because he can  _ imagine _ how exactly Dick heard it. "Wally told you," he says, and Dick nods, grin softening into a smile at the mention of him.   
  
"He did. Heard it from his uncle and rushed to tell me, the dork," Dick says fondly, and the glow of pure love in his eyes makes Jon wrinkle his nose.

"Yeah," he says waspishly, and pulls on his shirt. "So what happened?"   
  
Dick stops. "Apparently," he says slowly, "someone cut off his head."   
  
Jon sticks his head out of his closet. "That's it?” he asks, bewildered, and Dick snorts at him.   
  
"Indeed," he says. "It seems that they just wanted him dead."   
  
Damian isn't the kind of person who tortures people, Jon thinks, and it makes him warm. He's known people who just - torture others, and most of the time they end up dead at one of their own spells.   
  
A gruesome way to go, but an satisfying one to say the least.

"Obviously," he says instead, and hurries over to his boots. He thinks that Dick would look nice in the colors of the sun, and so would Wally, come to think of it, and he bites back a smile. If only he could get some fabrics like that. It could be a great present. Jon pulls on his boots and grabs his jacket, stalking out the door.   
  
Dick yelps and scrambles after him, his footsteps light as ever, and his falling-flying magic sparks under his skin. "Jon," he complains. "You don't even know where the body is!"   
  
Yes, he does. Jon remembers where the flicker-flame magic was, where the dead-rotting magic was, and he turns unnervingly towards the remnants of Joker's magic. It will fade, within a few hours, but right now he just needs to know where it is.

"Jon," Dick says, again, and Jon rolls his eyes.   
  
"Dick, I hope you realize that I'm a magic sensor. I can tell where he is," he says, mild as milk over his shoulder, and Dick stops.   
  
"Oh. Yeah," he says intelligently, and Jon snickers into his hand as he takes a right, then a left, and then a right again.   
  
Smoke-and-mirrors magic makes him falter, because Uncle Bruce is one of the best magic uses in the kingdom, no matter the fact that he can't sense it. He can easily tell when magic was used, and, to be simple, it's terrifying the cases he can solve without being like Jon.

Maybe Joker was like Jon, once upon a time. Maybe he went insane because of his magic - the rotting and dead and no, no. Magic reflects who a person  _ is, _ who they are and how they are, and nobody,  _ nobody _ has dead magic. It's the corruption of using the magic and killing with no regrets, of insanity and dying inside and laughing and laughing in white walls with  _ nothing else to do. _ Dead magic is an infection that grows and grows until it takes over the original and leaves you a dead man walking, with the only instinct is to  _ destroy. _   
  
Magic is dangerous. Nobody knows this better than Jon, who tastes ozone and traps lightning beneath his teeth, who dies and is reborn every time he sleeps, the magic in the air stopping his heart for a moment and nothing more, who feels like he's drowning and falling and dying.   
  
It took years for him to able to learn how to walk. The magic that crushed him made his legs weak and his eyes wet. Jon's quite possibly the most powerful magic sensor since the  _ kings. _ __  
  
If asked, Jon can't describe the way his sense works. He's been asked, been interrogated, been inquired, and Jon could never find the right words to describe  __ magic.   
  
Nobody could. Jon's checked. The last sensor - a little girl with galaxies in her eyes and fire under her skin - had smiled and said with sadness, "You could never understand."

Jon had met her, once. He was six and she was ten and she had knelt beside him, taken him in her arms, and her supernova magic had burned. She told him that his magic was like bubblegum, stretching and bubbling and resilient. He told her that her magic was like a star dying, and she had smiled, laughed, and said, "I've always been dying."   
  
She had been born with an illness no magic could heal, no science could understand, but they both knew. "We cannot have two sensors so close to another in time," she had whispered, had run her hands through his hair. "I was not meant to be here."   
  
Magic thrummed around her, made her words the truth, and Jon had cried and cried. She had smiled, pressed a kiss to his hair and left, her magic burning and rolling and exploding, a star given human form with the potential to burn the world if she so wished. Jon has no doubt that she could have killed him, made herself the only sensor and saved herself. She didn't, though. She had left and died and Jon had  _ screamed _ when he felt her magic leave him.   
  
Supernova girl, he'd called her. They later told him her name had been Lana.

Jon thinks, now, as he strides towards the corpse of a dead man, that she was always going to burn herself out.

It doesn't make the pain of losing her supernova magic hurt any less, even after four years.

Jon shakes himself out of his thoughts, ignores the ache inside him that still screams sometimes, and forces himself to keep walking. There's a corpse of a serial killer in the forest he plays in, after all, and he wants it gone.   
  
He won't admit that he wants to see proof, to see with his own eyes that the man who caused so much death and suffering is gone. Truly gone, not just disappeared.   
  
Steady-as-a-mountain magic flickers near him, calm and sad, and Jon blinks as he realizes that, yes, he is indeed at the body.

He takes a deep breath and lightning strikes his tongue. He cringes, but the feeling is smoke-and-mirrors. Uncle Bruce, then, taking a sample of the latent magic in the air with a spell he created. It won't help. Nobody has the same feel of magic, though they may be similar. Magic is as good as a fingerprint - better, in some cases. And Damian isn't from around here. Uncle Bruce won't find him, and the thought makes Jon smile.   
  
He doesn't want to lose his friend.

"Jon!"   
  
Dad. Jon turns his head and waves when Dad comes up from behind on a horse.  _ Most likely came from his quarters, _ Jon thinks, unamused by the way he's wearing official clothing to a murder scene.   
  
Then again, so is everyone else, so Jon's the odd one out.   
  
"Dad," Jon says, smiling, and Dad smiles back, his magic calm. It tends to start to crumble and feel like it's falling apart when he's upset or stressed. Jon's honestly surprised it isn't doing that right now.

Finding a decapitated serial killer in the forest your children was in last night might play a part, Jon thinks wryly, and moves closer to the body.   
  
Uncle Bruce is kneeling beside the body, unheeding of the blood that's getting on his clothes, and is staring at the pasty shoulders with hawk like concentration.   
  
Jon coughs. "So," he says, aiming for cheerful and falling short a few inches, crouching by the corpse. "What are you looking at there?"

Uncle Bruce sends him a withering look. "I'm looking," he says shortly, "at his shoulder blades."   
  
Jon circles around and crouches at the advisor's side. There's blood in two spots in his shoulder blades - like wings had been there, he thinks absently, and wrinkles his nose at the thought of Joker getting glowing moon wings like the legends say the kings had, once upon a time. "So," he says, drawing the word out the way he knows Uncle Bruce hates, and, sure enough, the man twitches, "what do you think caused those?"   
  
Uncle Bruce grimaces, reaching out and murmuring a spell. Jon breathes in the smoke and watches as the magic does its work, a light shimmer, barely noticeable in the sunlight and undetectable at night, covers the wounds. "Two daggers," Uncle Bruce says finally, and his lips tilt down. "And not one of a design I've seen before. Maybe not even made of a metal I've heard of before."   
  
Jon frowns. "Can I see what you're seeing?"   
  
This spell works like this: Uncle Bruce says the word, and his magic shows him what caused the wound and what happened exactly at the moment it connected. Nobody else can see it, though, unless Uncle Bruce allows it.   
  
Jon thinks that, at this moment, he will allow it.

Uncle Bruce nods, just a little, and the magic shifts. Two daggers flicker into existence, two silver blades slam down into the shoulders, and for a moment the body jerks. Something clear drips into the wounds, and Jon squints at it for a moment.   
  
"Hey, Uncle Bruce," he says, "I think that's poison."A shiver runs down Jon's spine, because poisons are  _ dangerous _ and these daggers look deadly; he can't imagine them in Damian's calloused and brown hands, and he can't imagine Damian  _ using _ them.   
  
Uncle Bruce can't sense the way Jon's magic twists and stretches in his gut wrenching uncertainty. Damian's trained and it shows. He automatically falls into a stance if he's startled, his footsteps are silent, and he's aware of exactly how his body moves. Jon isn't happy about it. Damian's only three years older than him but that speaks of  _ years _ of training and it makes his stomach swoop in something similar to disgust.   
  
Kon is like that, but he's been training since Jon could remember. Jon doesn't want to know how young Damian was when he started.

Uncle Bruce's rumbling voice drags him out of his thoughts. "So it seems," he says, voice impossibly deep, whispers another spell that tells him if there is toxins. He growls when it gives him the results. "They took it out," he huffs, and drops the spell. "It's done so thoroughly it had to be done with magic."   
  
Jon closes his eyes and tries not to picture Damian pulling the poison clean from Joker's body without a word and without a flinch. He sees it anyway, can envision the way Damian's magic had flickered as he watched Joker writhe as the poison filtered through his veins.   
  
Jon's mouth goes dry.   
  
"Yeah," he says, "yeah I guess."

Uncle Bruce hums and rises to his feet, straightening his dark coat as he does. "Can you tell who did it?" he asks, not even looking at Jon, but  Jon doesn't  _ need _ to. He already knows and his stomach rolls at the knowledge.   


"Yeah," he says instead, "I can."   
  
He draws in a breath and the world comes into focus in a way his eyes can't see.   
  
"Flicker-flame magic," he says, and he has to tear the words out of him. "With the dead magic. They were both here at approximately the same time."   
  
"Do you know anyone with this magic?” Uncle Bruce asks, and Jon swallows.  _ Damian, _ he thinks miserably, and his friend's grin flashes in his mind.  _ Damian has this magic. _   
  
"No," he says resolutely, and his voice doesn't waver.   
  
Uncle Bruce nods and heads towards Dad, who's hovering at the edge of the clearing, and Jon walks over to a guard who's studying at a small pieces of a paper.

"What's that," he says curiously, forcing a politically correct smile that he's practiced since he was five, and the guard looks up.   
  
"Uh," he stutters, back pedaling, and Jon sighs internally. He  _ really _ doesn't like guards who are nervous around him. He's only ten. "The killer left a note."   
  
Jon kneels again and looks at it, loathe to pick it up in case someone tries a fingerprint spell. His eyes widen at the handwriting and his heart leaps into his throat.   
  
He has a scroll with that handwriting hidden under his bed with the best magic he could do, and his magic spikes in his panic.   
  
_ Everyone _ can feel it, and Dad's immediately by his side.   
  
Jon blinks as he calms, and Dad's in his face, asking, "Jon, Jon what happened, Jon-"   
  
Jon puts one hand on his dad's face and shoves him away. "Personal space, Dad," he says, tongue heavy in his mouth, and Uncle Bruce is a looming shadow in the corner of his eye. "I'm fine. Just felt unsettled."

Dad's eyebrows draw together in the  _ Concerned Dad _ look and Jon groans, already anticipating the lecture to come.   
  
"Dad," he says, and points at the note with the curt handwriting. "Just look."   
  
Dad does and so does Bruce, and Jon takes the opportunity so generously given to get to his feet and start to walk back to to the palace, disregarding the way Dick calls after him.   
  
He wants to rest for a bit, to calm the storm in his head and strangle the want to scream.   
  
He just...needs to rest.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posting this early bc memoiral day is tomorrow

Damian wakes up in Jon's bed, curled up under warm covers with the moon hanging overhead, cut in half. He blinks blearily, a yawn forcing its way past his lips, and sits up. Jon wrinkles his nose and snuggles closer to his pillow.   
  
Damian can think of a hundred ways to kill him in this moment without leaving a trace, but Jon trusts him enough, feels safe enough that he doesn't wake up with a spell at his tongue and magic flaring bright. A smile flickers on Damian's face and he stretches, absently flicking his wrist to tell the time.   
  
Numbers burn in the air in gold, flames casting more light in the room, and Damian blinks, dumbfounded at the time.   
  
He'd slept for eight hours? That's...way long than he wanted.   
  
The number registers, and Damian leaps out of the bed, his clothes flying towards him, and he banishes the blood before he dresses and vanishes into thin air. He doesn't have  _ time _ to go the physical way, not now, not with Grandfather coming to his room to check on him, and he springs into the wall, heart in his throat as he closes the entrance behind him.   
  
By the  _ kings, _ how could he be so stupid? Going into the moon kingdom was foolish and time consuming and -   
  
And worth it.

He braces himself for the sunlight and as soon as his feet touches warm grass, he throws his magic up and is in his room, the entrance from his side sealed. His magic slides from the air around him, clinging to the walls as he tears the assassin clothes off him, dressing in robes made of green silk with bronze dragons curling around his shoulders.

Damian personally prefers phoenixes.

Fire licks at his palms, and Damian opens his hands in surprise, blinking down at them in almost befuddlement. He hasn't done accidental magic in years; every drop of power is controlled by him and that's not likely to change soon, so what -   
  
Emotion. Damian's people's magic relies on emotion. The stronger it is, the stronger the magic. Sociopaths don't have any magic, and it makes him sadistically gleeful them, because sociopaths deserve that, with what they often do to others.

Damian's family is highly emotional, their feelings running red hot under their skin, and they embrace it, lets it take them soaring to new heights, but they never allow their magic to run rampant without their permission. It's too dangerous, otherwise.   
  
Damian's magic has always been strong, even for an al Ghul, but - accidental magic? Magic caused by a surge of emotion, magic that just  _ happens? _   
  
That's new. That's unacceptable in his training, and he wills it away with nary a thought, magic under his thumb as it should be. Magic reserves aren't infinite, after all; it's like stamina. You can build it up or be born with large ones, but it comes from the magic user.   
  
Magic out of control is wild. It's dangerous. And under his family's reign, every child learns that.   
  
Damian sighs and sits, tucking his feet under him as he pulls out a book from the shelf across the room, settling down in his chair.

Grandfather will not be pleased with him, if he finds out that Damian had left. He will be furious, really, and Damian winces at the thought of it. His king's fury is to be avoided; the last one who incurred it has nothing left, body or otherwise, and just because Damian is his grandson doesn't mean he'll get away with whatever he wants. In all actuality, he gets pushed more than any other  _ because _ of his relation to him.   
  
Only the best, Damian thinks darkly, and opens the book in his lap.   
  
And he waits.

 

\--

 

Ten minutes pass, then fifteen, then twenty. Damian's fidgeting in his seat, twisting a bright yellow ribbon around his fingers until it's so tight that he has to untangle it. His magic buzzes nervously, sets him on edge as he shifts in his seat, not even focusing on his book as he looks at the clock on his wall.   
  
Ten minutes past when Grandfather was supposed to arrive.   
  
Damian tightens the ribbon around his index finger until it hurts. Grandfather is  _ never _ late. Not once in Damian's life has he been late, even if it is something menial as coming down to see how his training is going. If he says he's gonna be here at a certain time, he is.   
  
And Grandfather is  _ late. _ __   
  
Damian's heart crawls into his throat.

"Maybe," he says to himself, "maybe he's been set behind?"   
  
But that's not possible either. When Grandfather has something to do, has  _ said _ he'll do something, he will do it. He doesn't let his meetings run late, doesn't let anything make him a moment behind, and his counselors know this. It's how he's been at every single one of Damian's birthday celebrations.   
  
Thirty minutes.   
  
Damian tightens the ribbon until the tips of his fingers turn white. When will his king arrive?   
  
He isn't so sure that leaving was worth it, not when this waiting is driving him mad.   
  
Damian's never had to wait for Grandfather. Never.   
  
The door creaks open, and Damian's on his feet within seconds, the ribbon hidden in his voluminous sleeves as he waits patiently for his king to come inside, sandals whisper soft against the marble.

"Grandfather," Damian starts, forcing his breathing to steady, and he waits for that old magic to crash into him, force him to his knees, make him kneel.   
  
What he gets, instead, is the crinkle of old pages underneath his fingers, and the sweet smell of jam.   
  
Damian blinks up at his mother's prized soldier, the white stark against black hair, and nearly collapses with relief.

"Hey, kid," Jason says, crossing his arms. "Ra's is down with some magical illness. If the medics try to fuck with it, it'll kill him, so he's down for a few days. Sorry he wasn't able to visit."   
  
Damian nearly bursts into hysterical giggles. Of  _ course _ the only thing that's capable of keeping Grandfather down is a magical illness.   
  
Why didn't he think of that?   
  
"You're free today. Talia says that you need to brush up on your sword play, so I'd do that," Jason says, shrugging carelessly, and Damian snarls at him.   
  
"My ability with swords is perfectly on par with the best," he snaps, and Jason laughs at him. It's not mocking, far from it. It's understanding, because as the soldier his mother personally trained, a lot of pressure is put on him.   
  
Not as much as Damian, but still.   
  
"I know kid," he says, something pained in his eyes as he reached out and ruffled Damian's hair, ignoring his frown and the way he smacks his hand away. "I know. But Talia is the boss around here, so."   
  
"Indeed," Damian says, wrapping his hands around his wrists so that his hands are hidden.   
  
Golden threads connect, glowing briefly, and the dragons scamper from his shoulders to his arms, curling into random shapes. Jason watches them with a level of bemusement, well used to the way enchanted cloth works.   
  
"Are you going to wear that to the party?” he asks absentmindedly, and Damian separates his hands, the dragons playfully clawing at the creases in the silk.   
  
"No," Damian says, wrinkling his nose. "Mother would kill me if I did."   
  
Jason snorts. "She would. She get you fitted out for a new thing yet?"

"Not yet," Damian says, closing his eyes and rolling back on his heels. The blue ribbon is hidden in his room under magic.   
  
He...He likes blue. He likes dark blue.   
  
"Well, shit." Jason leans against the wall, the door clanging shut behind him with a flick of his hand "She better do it soon, the parties in a few days."   
  
Damian cracks open an eye, glaring indignantly. "I'm well aware," he says sharply. "But Mother hasn't had the time, nor the place as I am banished to my rooms."   
  
Jason rolls his eyes tiredly. "Like that stopped her from giving you that mission."

Damian tilts his head, because, yeah, there's nothing he can say to refute that. Mother  _ did _ give him that mission, and Damian can't really say that he regrets taking it. If anything, he just saved more kids from nightmares, which is-nice. Normally he's the one causing the nightmares, and that isn't a pleasant thought.   
  
"Jason, why are you here?” he asks instead, and Jason levels him with a flat look.   
  
"You sneaked out," Jason says stiffly, and Damian freezes. "We don't know where, but you sure as  _ hell  _ sneaked out. And Ra's isn't happy about it, bedridden as he is."   
  
Jason's magic roars, and Damian nearly shouts as the sugar taste explodes, hands coming  up to clutch as his jaw, wincing.   
  
"Who did you meet?” Jason asks, sounding bored, but the magic -   
  
The magic reveals all. Jason is  _ angry, _ forever angry at something, and Damian doesn't know what to do, because for once that anger is directed at him and only him.

"I didn't meet anyone," he says, breath misting out like it's cold, and it's the truth, of a sorts. He didn't leave to  _ meet _ with anyone. He left so that he could help his friend. He lowers his hands, curling them into fists, because this is something he will not give up, not  _ ever. _ __   
  
Jason hums, unconvinced, but the flurry of paper stops. The ache in Damian's mouth fades, and Damian's left gasping for air, blood trickling down his palms from where his nails are biting into them.   
  
Jason runs a hand through his hair, smiling apologetically, but with a touch of will, Damian shoves him out into the city - he doesn't care  _ where, _ only that he  _ leaves _ \- and stumbles back so far that the back of his legs hit his bed, and he falls, staring up at the ceiling.   
  
He really needs to work on that. He's a sensor, so he's more sensitive to magic; Jason knew this and used it to his advantage.   
  
__ Just like Mother taught him, Damian thinks, with something bitter rolling in his chest and in in his lungs, and tilts his head back, simply breathing.   
  
It doesn't take long for him to go to sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

Maybe it isn't so surprising, but Grandfather is back on his feet within two days, his magic not quite up to par, but that's never stopped him before.   
  
(His great-grandmother, strong and unbeatable even in her later years, was the sensor before Damian. She was the one who taught Grandfather that even a spark of magic is enough to beat an army, and it's a philosophy that Grandfather has taken to heart.   
  
Damian thinks it's ridiculous, but he doesn't dare says so.)

But, as always, when Grandfather demands his presence, Damian must go.   
  
"My king?" he asks, lingering in the doorway of the office, and Grandfather looks up from the reports littering his desk.   
  
_ The duty of a king is never done, _  Grandfather had told a young Damian on his fourth birthday, and Damian has never forgotten it.   
  
"Ah, yes," Grandfather says briskly, standing from his seat and walking past him, his robes dragging on the floor behind him. "Damian. Walk with me."   
  
Damian cautiously follows, tugging on his sleeves apprehensively. "To the gardens?" he asks, and Grandfather's lips tilt up.   
  
"Indeed. We must have a talk."   
  
Damian doesn't bite down on his lip, nor does he curl his fingers into fists. Grandfather would not like it if he did so, if he revealed his shaken nerves so easily.

"May I ask what we must talk about?" he says cautiously, magic prickling under his skin with unease.   
  
Grandfather's voice turns dark. "You know  _ exactly _ what we must talk about."   
  
Damian swallows, but doesn't say more. Grandfather's magic is overwhelming, overpowering, and even now, with it barely in the edges of his senses, it makes him want to fall to one knee. The extent of control Grandfather has over his magic is terrifying. The feel of it even more so.   
  
Old, ancient, and oh so  _ angry. _   
  
A shiver runs up his spine.   
  
He licks his lips as they step into the garden, the trees casting shade upon the warm grass and the fountains calmly spurting water.   
  
A vast difference from the rolling fury of Grandfather's magic.

Grandfather walks among the flowers blooming a bloody red, trailing his fingers on the stone work scattered in the gardens, and Damian keeps his silence.   
  
A moment later and Grandfather's magic flares, powerful and undeniable, and Damian stumbles back, the sugar taste exploding, and Grandfather whips out with one hand, catching him in the jaw.   
  
He's never been able to tell what Grandfather's magic is, never been able to pinpoint it, but he thought - still thinks - that it's the closest thing to a demon's magic he's going to get. And right now, Grandfather is reminding him of his reasoning, because it's  _ rotting _ and burning and -   
  
Damian flies into a fountain, slumping against the stone and doesn't let his magic rise, doesn't let it crackle into flames, because that will make it far,  _ far _ worse.   
  
Grandfather doesn't like disobedience; he  _ despises _ it from his family.   
  
"You  _ insolent _ boy," Grandfather snarls, starting forward, and Damian scrambles to his feet.   
  
Although he wants compliance, he doesn't want Damian to be on the ground before him. He wants him to be standing. Damian learned this the hard way when he was four.   
  
"Grandfather," he starts, tasting blood, and Grandfather's magic snaps at him, makes him fall silent even as a magic laced hit makes him fall to the ground, his own magic in disarray.   
  
He's never suppressed it before, not unless he's with Grandfather, and it throws him off balance, makes him cold, and then he's crashing into a tree, and his back  _ aches. _ His vision is swimming and his head hurts, and then Grandfather grabs his hair, pulling his head up to make him  _ look  _ him in the eyes.   
  
Fire burns in his king's eyes, and Damian can't breathe.

"Did you really think the fact that you  _ sneaked out _ was going to go unnoticed," Grandfather says, terrifyingly furious, and Damian opens his mouth, then closes it. Grandfather knees him in the stomach, and Damian dry heaves, tears springing to his eyes, and his magic is begging him to use it, imploring him to fight back, but he's never been able to fight back against his grandfather, never been able to stand against him. He doesn't think he ever will.   
  
Grandfather gives him a shake, and it  _ hurts, _ it does, but Damian focuses on his king again.  _ "Did you?" _ __   
  
Yes. He foolishly had thought he'd be able to visit his friend, to leave his room when he'd been trapped in it.   
  
How stupid he had been.   
  
"No," he gasps out, lungs still out of air, and Grandfather sneers, throwing him to the ground.   
  
Damian lays there, gasping for breath, clutching the shade cool grass with one hand, and then Grandfather's magic washes over him, harsh and unforgiving, and Damian writhes on the ground. Grandfather can do this. He learned at the knees of Damian's great grandmother. How to cause pain to a sensor with only magic, with a spark of will and a smidgen of intent, and by the kings does it work.   
  
Grandfather circles him like a predator -  _ he is, _ Damian thinks blearily past the pain,  _ he's the biggest one _ \- and smiles coldly at the way Damian starts to sob. It hurts, it  _ hurts, _ he's sorry, he's so sorry, please just  __ stop  -

Another wave and Damian throws up, curls onto his side and coughs up what little he could stomach today, and then blood begins to replace it, bright red and damning, and Damian clutches at his chest,  _ knowing _ that Grandfather is causing internal damage. He can  _ feel _ it, can feel his king's magic invading him, but he can do nothing to stop it.   
  
He spits out more blood.   
  
"I  _ punished you _ by making you  _ stay in your room," _ Grandfather says, and the taste in Damian mouth is sickly sweet. "But you just had to test my patience."   
  
Another stab of impossibly precise magic, and Damian starts to scream.   
  
"Grandfather," he gasps, and he's abandoning his pride for life, deserting his ego for survival.   
  
The world blurs until he can only see colors and he stops moving.   
  
His blood looks so beautiful against the green grass. Grandfather thinks so, because he kneels down and smiles, his eyes glinting cruelly, and he freezes it.   
  
Cold everywhere.   
  
Where is his magic? Where is the warmth that keeps him hot during cold nights?   
  
"Grandfather," he wheezes, and everything goes black.   
  
The last thing he sees is Grandfather's smile.

 

\--

 

"My...far more damage...might now wake up..."   
  
Damian scrunches his nose. His chest hurts, but - the warmth, the warmth of his magic embraces him, eases his pain, and he sinks into with a soft sigh.   
  
A scuffle to the right of him, and Damian slits open his eyes to see Jason, holding out a cup of ice chips.   
  
"Hey, kid," he says softly, and Damian hums in response. "You really gave us a scare."   
  
Damian scowls. "Blame Grandfather," he whispers, voice rough, and Jason furrows his brows, eyes darting around.   
  
"You know better than to provoke him," Jason says, none too harshly, and Damian lets out a small breath.   
  
"I do," he says humorlessly, and Jason gives a short bitter laugh.   
  
"Damn right you do," Jason scoffs, and Damian swallows more ice chips.   
  
"Grandfather almost killed me," Damian says after a moment, quiet and a little scared. "He's never - never done that before."   
  
Jason's lips tighten. "Yeah. He's been getting more crazy the last few years."   
  
"He wouldn't have done that if he was in his right mind," Damian says, and he wonders who he's trying to convince. Jason or himself?   
  
He doesn't know. Damian's family has always been frighteningly sane, but this -   
  
Grandfather almost  _ killed _ him.   
  
Damian pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around his legs, burying his face in the soft fabric.   
  
He's always had to be cautious at home, always had to be alert, but he's  _ never _ had to fear for his life with Grandfather.   
  
And yet he did.   
  
And that scares him.

A big hand comes up and ruffles his hair. Damian looks up, and Jason grins at him wryly.   
  
"It'll be okay. You know Talia won't let him get away with it," he says, and all at once something close to gratitude but falling short a few inches washes over Damian, and he smiles.


	10. Chapter 10

The party, as Grandfather has told him time and time again, is to strengthen ties with the ones who had political clout while showing off the fact that they are the farthest thing from  _ weak. _   
  
One day after Damian woke up in the medical ward, the party begins.   
  
He isn't sure how to feel about it. Grandfather - he  _ terrifies _ Damian now, more so than he ever did, but they have to present a united front. So he dresses in the new robe Mother had tailored for him, gold silk with suns bursting at the seams and yellow curls around the wrists, and goes to the party.

He deeply regrets it, now.   
  
Grandfather isn't looking at him, isn't even touching him, but he still says, "Smile," as a servant announces their arrival.   
  
Damian fixes a smile on his face - one with just enough violence in it to make it somewhat feral - and walks with his Grandfather to the right of him into the viper pit.   
  
Mother is already there, talking with the lords and ladies, unbeatable in her gown of red, and Damian wonders if they modeled the sleeves after the way blood splatters. It certainly looks that way.   
  
"Father," Mother calls, smiling a little, but it's a vicious thing, not suited for politeness, and Grandfather inclines his head.   
  
"Talia," he returns, and Damian's pulse goes faster. Grandfather is not happy with him, that much is true, but -   
  
But Mother will not be if she knew, either. Both of them angry with him -   
  
Well. Confident in his abilities he may be, he knows he is no match for them. He doubts that they could heal him before his magic fades entirely and leaves him as a corpse.

"Mother," Damian says, and she spares him a glance, a small brush of her hand over his hair, and Damian closes his eyes to savor it.   
  
Very rarely does she deign to touch him. He doesn't think that she would even dare to if she knew.   
  
"My son," she says, gentle and fake, before she turns back to the lords, drawing their attention with a small swish of her hips.   
  
Grandfather lays a hand on his shoulder, and Damian freezes, heart in his throat. "Do not wander far," he warns, voice low, then he releases him, going into the crowds and leaving him alone.   
  
Damian desperately wishes for something to occupy his hands. The habit of having his attention otherwise caught, of having his excess energy burn off by bouncing on the balls of his feet or twisting a ribbon around his fingers was beat out of him in public, but that doesn't mean he doesn't wish for it. He has too much energy to sit still, sometimes, and the ribbon helps.   
  
He doesn't think that Grandfather or Mother understands, but -   
  
But he just - wishes.   
  
He doesn't think that Jon has to deal with this. Jon twists his wrists and swings his arms without care. Damian hasn't done so since he was five, when the ability to stay in one place was pounded into his head.   
  
Damian blinks and shakes himself; this is no time to dwell on the past or the differences in childhoods. Now he has to build bonds with politicians and the future leaders, to prove that he is a viable candidate for the throne, to give the illusion that he actually cares about their plans that don't benefit anyone but themselves.   
  
He has to focus.

"My prince!"   
  
And there was another reason Damian didn't want to go to the party.   
  
Fixing a smile on his face, he turns around and says, "Lord Slade!"   
  
Lord Slade grins at him, clearly pleased at the formality and the reminder of his title that he literally killed to get - not even evidence to convict, unfortunately, Damian thinks with an internal grimace.   
  
"Prince Damian," Lord Slade says with a bow, but it's not low enough, not without it being politically correct, and Damian's fingers curl into fiats underneath his sleeves, "how have you been? I've heard such dreadful rumors of your physical state."   
  
Damian doesn't twitch. "I wasn't aware there were rumors," he replies, soft and a reminder that he can  _ sense _ that there would be.   
  
Slade grins. "There are always rumors when the crown prince is laid in the medical wing for a day."   
  
Damian doesn't give away any reaction beyond a mild blink.   
  
"Well," he says, "I have to wonder who your source is, for you to be so updated in the matters of the palace."   
  
Slade does freeze, and Damian's lips go up in a cold smirk. He just made a dig at the fact that he  _ knew _ Slade had spies and others listening in, but that he just doesn't care enough about Slade that he's given time to weed them out.   
  
"I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me," Damian says gracefully, and walks, victory a song in his veins.   
  
Ah, politics. How he loves and hates them.

Music winds its way around the room as he walks, and the musicians tap their feet underneath it. There's such thing as magical instruments, but they're never allowed during the parties the royal family hosts - too many ways of it being a weapon - and so this is all natural talent. Damian sighs and snags a small cup of red wine off of a server. He's thirteen, but he's been drinking alcohol since he was ten, in a way to build up his tolerance.  He much prefers juice, though.   
  
Damian takes a sip, then saunters into the crowd to catch his mother, who's talking with an emissary from a large city in the outer reaches of their kingdom. He slides up next to her and subtly draws her attention by making her fingernail glow. She looks down and nods. He taps twice then makes Slade's wine taste like orange juice. He grimaces, and she smiles at him.   
  
Message conveyed. Slade is becoming far too much of a thorn in their sides, but they can't be rid of him directly. He's too powerful for that. They'll have to get rid of the spies and send him a message. Perhaps a heart in a box. A classic, set by Damian's great grandfather when a lady got too much pride and tried to maneuver her way into his household.   
  
She turns back to the emissary, and Damian turns to face the crowd, taking another drink of wine. It's strong and very potent, and he lets it rest on his tongue.   
  
He wishes this party would be over already so he didn't have to play this tiresome game of pleasing everyone and no one. Or at least an attack.   
  
A tap on his shoulder, and he's swept into a dance with his fellow soldier Maya, her gown stopping at the knees and flaring out slightly at the waist, just enough to make it appropriate.   
  
"Hello," he says in bemusement, and Maya grins at him, her teeth shining white underneath the light of the ballroom as she twirls.

"Hey," she replies, graceful as always, and Damian takes one step to the left, then the right, and she matches him with every one. "I saw that you were alone and that Slade was trying to talk to you, so I figured I'd intervene."   
  
Damian huffs out a laugh, spinning around. "Yes, well. You might be needed soon."   
  
Maya's eyes sharpen, and her smile turns cutting. "How so?” she asks, silky and dangerous, and Damian raises an eyebrow at her.   
  
"Why, using your skills as Nobody," he says, and she laughs maliciously.   
  
"Indeed," she says, and spins away, her skirt flaring around her legs. Damian follows and draws her back into the dance. "It's such a pity my father is gone. He's like to use them."   
  
Damian scoffs. Maya's father had been conspiring to overthrow them, and Damian had put a stop to it himself. Maya had forgiven him, eventually, for she was every bit a killer as he, but now she is the sole person knowing just how their magic as Nobody works.   
  
Nobody is a powerful ace up their sleeves and that's a well known fact.   
  
"Slade is getting a bit uppity," he muses lowly. "You may very well have to put a stop to it."   
  
Maya leans close to his ear. "I will do anything you ask, my king, anything at all."   
  
Treason, those words are  _ treason, _ but Maya has always viewed him as her king instead of Grandfather.   
  
He smiles and whispers back, "Then I will tell you what to do soon."   
  
She laughs, every inch an assassin, and places her lips on his cheek. "I await your orders."

With a spin on her heel, Maya vanishes into the crowd, her knee high, armored boots thudding against the floors. Damian hears people scramble out of her way and smiles, just a bit.

 

\--

 

It isn't surprising in the least, but Damian ends up gravitating towards the balconies, where there weren't as many people.   
  
He doesn't like crowds. They make his instincts flare up, make him reach for a knife, for his magic, and quite frankly Damian doesn't want to stab someone because they brushed up against him.   
  
Damian sighs and rubs at his eyes, the sun staring down at him from above. Damn it all, he just wants to sleep.   
  
"Damian," comes a horribly familiar voice, and Damian heaves a groan, hanging his head.   
  
"Yes, Lady Emiko?" he asks, and she comes up to stand beside him.   
  
"Oh, nothing," she says nonchalantly, leaning against the railing. She smiles, her lips painted a dark plum, and stares at him, her magic waving around as blatantly as she is. It's always reminded him of a bird of paradise. An annoying one, but mostly harmless.   
  
Damian glances at her. "If it was nothing," he says carefully, "then you wouldn't be talking to me."   
  
She laughs. It grates on his ears. "Mother is inside talking to the king. Three guesses as to why."   
  
Damian closes his eyes, trying in vain not to get a headache. "Please tell me that she's not trying to get an arranged marriage out him."   
  
"She is."  Emiko hops onto the railing, swinging her feet idly. "Personally, I wouldn't mind being married to you. I'd at least have access to weapons." She grins, teeth stark against her makeup and Damian scowls at her.

"Yes, well," he says irritably, "I  _ would _ mind being married to you."    
  
Emiko huffs out an exasperated breath, rolling her eyes at him. "Damian, I'm only three years older than you. I have a cousin who married someone four years older than them."   
  
"And I am not your cousin," Damian says tightly. "As such, I have no interest in marrying."   
  
_ Especially not to you, _ he thinks viciously as Emiko scoffs.   
  
"Are you ashamed that I turned you down," she teases, and Damian snarls at her, reaching out with his magic to make her skin feel like it's being stabbed. She yelps, falling off and landing unsteadily on her feet.

"By no means did I ask to court you," he growls, glaring at her. "Mother  _ told _ me to invite you for dinner, and you rejected that opportunity when you misunderstood the fact that Mother merely wanted you to become an archer for her troops."   
  
She stares at him, dress hanging limply off her. "I-"   
  
"And  _ furthermore," _ Damian continues, relentless in his aggravation, "the fact that you think so highly of your station that you  _ dare _ insult me when we meet shows just how arrogant you are."   
  
He flicks a hand and the balcony doors slam open. "Get of my sight," he snaps harshly, and she scrambles to do as her prince demands. He watches her flee, something unfurling in his chest at the sight of her leaving him be.   
  
He slumps against the railing and stares at the sky, white clouds floating serenely by.   
  
The magic in the air is charged. It'll rain soon. Damian looks at the wall and wonders if Jon has to deal with this.   
  
Probably not, considering just how his parents met.   
  
The doors open behind him, Mother's magic uncurling, and Damian grimaces. She isn't happy with him, nor the way he handled Emiko.   
  
"Damian," she says, deathly quiet, and Damian turns around to look at her. Her face is thunderous, her eyes glinting like ice, and his heart sinks in his chest.   
  
"Yes, Mother?"

"You know exactly what we need to speak of," she says, echoing Grandfather's words a mere two days ago, and she sounds the same amount of frigid cold. Damian's shoulders tense and he doesn't move.   
  
Fear slithers in his veins, just like his mother's snake-like magic, and he tucks his hands behind the folds of his robes. He lifts his chin, unbending to nature and his fear. "I presume about Lady Emiko," he says, steady, and her magic hisses at him, full of anger. He doesn't flinch.   
  
"Indeed," she says, and anyone else could have mistaken that tone for calmness, but Damian has grown up with her at his side, has learned to read her like nobody except Grandfather can, and he sees the rage as it is. "Damian, why would you treat her that way? Her mother is an incredibly influential woman, one who is willing to die for us if we wanted her too, and you sent her  _ daughter _ running back inside?"   
  
Her voice is faintly incredulous. Damian flattens his lips into a straight line. "She is also trying to claw her way into our household using arranged marriage."   
  
Mother's eyes narrow. "Yes, there is that." Her magic flickers then steadies. "But that does not change the fact that you just made her mother  _ furious." _

"Lady Emiko," Damian says stiffly, folding his hands behind his back, "is nothing but a gold digger, and she insists on  _ insulting _ me blatantly when we come face to face."   
  
Mother's magic makes his teeth hurt, make him taste sugar as the presence of it doubles, bearing down on him like it did when he got into trouble when he was five despite the fact that it made him scream. "That gives you no excuse. Politics is a dangerous game, Damian, and you need to realise that."   
  
"I do," he protests, his own indignation rising at her words. He  _ does _ recognize that, but Emiko is just a girl trying to be his future wife when he has every intention of letting her be the exact opposite! He's been dealing with this since he was nine, and it has not let up, not ever.   
  
His patience has been used up, he's afraid, and his temper is close to snapping.   
  
"Do you?" Stepping closer, her dress dragging on the ground behind her, her magic rising like the tide around her, Mother looks him in the eyes. "Do you truly? What you did to Lady Emiko is nothing less than a death wish, if you were a lord. Damian, my son, you cannot be this reckless." She leans forward, resting her forehead on his and cradles his face in her hands as though he was four. He reaches up to loosely hold her wrists, closing his eyes. "My son, life here is not kind, not even as royals. We both know this. You are my only child. I cannot lose you."   
  
There's a ball of emotion in his throat and his eyes burn. He thinks it might be tears. "I know, Mama," he says hoarsely, using the name he hasn't used in years. "You tell me all the time."   
  
"And yet it is not enough." She pulls back, pressing her lips to his forehead as he opens his eyes. "Damian, I only wish for you to be safe. Sneaking out and defying the king is not safe. It is suicidal. I almost lost you."   
  
"I know," he mumbles, and she smiles, very sadly.   
  
"I'm sure you do," she says softly, and Damian's heart  _ aches _ to hear her voice like that; small and defeated nothing like the woman he knows as his mother.   
  
Mother," he starts, but it's too late; the moment is broken. She steps away, her face turning hard and cold and so much like the mother he loves and the commander he hates.   
  
"We will speak with the king of your behavior later," she says briskly, and heads inside.   
  
Damian stares after her, his eyes shining with unshed tears, and doesn't move, feeling more helpless and alone than he has in a long time.

 

\--

 

Grandfather calls him over the moment he gets back inside. Damian's muscles tense for all of a second before he's walking over to his family, dread making his stomach clench.   
  
"Grandfather," he says steadily, giving Emiko a passing glance. "What did you want me for?"   
  
Grandfather smiles, and it's not nice. In fact, it's straight up predatory, ready to take the kill, and Lady Shado knows it. Grandfather is the bigger fish, not her. "I just wanted to let you know that these lovely ladies have been pushing for a marriage between you and Lady Emiko."   
  
Damian's lip curls at the thought of being chained to Emiko. "Indeed. So they have for several years now. Have you decided to give them an answer?"   
  
Grandfather laughs, brutal and brutish, as he answers with, "I thought I'd let you tell them."   
  
This is a gift. A gift given freely with no strings attached other than the satisfaction of watching Lady Sado get taken down a peg. Damian swallows. It is truly rare that Grandfather is this generous.

"Lady Emiko," he says, perfectly polite, and Mother's magic twists towards him, interested despite her occupation with a major, "I'm afraid that I have to decline your marriage proposal."   
  
The room falls silent.   
  
Lady Sado immediately starts to protest, but Grandfather gives her a sharp look, magic flickering visibly on his skin, and she shuts her mouth with a small clack. "The reason being," Damian continues, choosing his words ever so carefully, "is that I need someone who will be seen as an equal to myself so the kingdom can grow. I need someone who has experience in the court, who has tact and wit. I'm afraid that you simply do not have the experiences necessary to do the deeds required to run a kingdom."   
  
Emiko flushes red, looking ready to punch him in the face, but the damage has been done. Whispers erupt from the dead air around them, rumors beginning to circulate from those who heard from those who didn't, gossip twisting his words into something awful.   
  
Emiko and Lady Shado are done for. Their reputation will take a nosedive, unable to get any respect or keep their employees. They'll eventually turn to the black market and go into ruin.   
  
This is what he wanted and yet -   
  
And yet, he can't help but feel like he did something terrible. He just  _ ended _ a family's life and for what? A petty marriage proposal?   
  
He bites his lip, tangles his hands into his robe. His stomach is rolling and he feels sick.   
  
Emiko looks horrified. She looks scared.   
  
Grandfather grins. Damian stays blank.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> : ^

The party is over. The guests are gone. And Damian is trapped in his room once again.   
  
He huffs and lays on his bed, legs dangling off the edge as he stares at the golden ceiling. He's tired. Oh so tired. His body aches from the the rushed healing job and he's exhausted from the political plays and manipulation he had to do for hours.   
  
Damian closes his eyes. Emiko's expression of terror won't leave him be, appearing every time he gets a moment to breathe.   
  
He won't be sick. He won't throw up. He just wants to sleep.   
  
He wants a bit of rest. Just enough so he can be refreshed for when Grandfather calls for him next.   
  
Damian tries to relax. It's not hard, to do so physically, but - mentally?   
  
That's a different story.

A flash of flame beside him, a bit of wind rustles his hair, and Damian cracks open one eye. Blue ribbon with a white crescent that's slowly filling in to become a circle.   
  
Jon.   
  
Damian reaches for it blindly, carefully unwrapping the ribbon and opening the scroll.   
  
_ Damian, _ he reads,  _ we never did get to go to that tea place. And you didn't say goodbye when you left. Why don't we meet in the wall and we can go meet my friend Kathy? _   
  
Damian blanches. Sneak out? Grandfather nearly  _ killed _ him when he left last time, and Damian has the healing runes drawn on him as proof.   
  
No. No, he  _ can't - _   
  
Damian scrambles for a scroll and inkwell, heart pounding in his ears.   
  
_ Jon, _ he writes hurriedly, fearfully,  _ I'm 'grounded' to my room and unable to leave. _ That much is true. The threat of Grandfather finding out is enough to make Damian unable to move. _ Perhaps later? _ __   
  
He wraps it in a golden ribbon adorned with the sun and with a small push of will and an image of Jon's bedroom in his head - dark wood, blue covers, silver hanging from the ceiling in delicate curls - and it's gone.   
  
Damian burns the scroll and hides the ribbon with a bit of magic. He said that he never met anyone. So he can't have any evidence. He closes his eyes tiredly, stretching his arms above his head with a yawn as he heads back to bed.   
  
He won't move from this room until Grandfather gives him permission, and that's just as well. He needs all the sleep he could get.   
  
Maybe he'll forget Emiko's face for a few hours.

 

\--

 

A  _ month. _ Damian's been confined to his room for a  _ month, _ only let out for training, missions and public appearances.   
  
Damian groans loudly and throws himself into a chair, scowling at the ceiling.   
  
He's so bored.   
  
Gods damn it all he just wants to go outside.   
  
He's been getting regular reports from Jason, little things like the new gossip, the state of the training. Small things. They don't speak of the political climate. It's not Jason's place.   
  
That's Maya's.   
  
And, right on cue, he tastes sugar and senses magic. He takes a deep breath, because Maya's magic makes one feel like the oxygen is being ripped from their lungs mercilessly, like the air is suffocating and all too much and too little. Subtle, barely noticeable, but incredibly deadly.   
  
Just like her.   
  
Damian smiles.   
  
Maya drops from the ceiling, landing silently in a crouch, her face hidden by the assassin mask.   
  
Damian stands gracefully, waving at her to take off her mask. "How is Lady Emiko?” he asks softly, and Maya tilts her head, pursing her lips.   
  
"Her family is losing money fast. Their workers are leaving and finding work elsewhere, and while Lady Shado tries to salvage their reputation Lady Emiko fires arrow after arrow." She frowns, rising to her feet. "Damian, they're done for."   
  
He sighs, something very much like guilt settling in his stomach. "I know."

He runs a hand through his hair, starting to pace from the door to his balcony to his bed. "I've been thinking on it and I need to find a way to save them and get me out of here in one fell swoop." He spins on his heel, heading back to the sunlight. "But I don't know what I should do."   
  
Maya crouches like a bird on the arm of the chair he was sitting on, watching him think. "Maybe a letter," she says idly, playing with a knife. The light glinted off the blade, and sitting like that, messing with a knife that has been covered in her own father's blood, she looks exactly like the ideal assassin.   
  
Damian rubs at his eyes, settling himself on his bed and pushing the tips of his fingers together. "That won't work. A letter will only get me more time damned to these walls."   
  
Maya shrugs. "I don't know what you want me to do. I'm an assassin, Damian, and my family has been so for generations. Killing is all I've ever known, and I don't have the head for politics."   
  
He gives her a weary smile. "I know," he says, nudging her a bit with a little magic. "But I need to-"   
  
A knock at the door, a call of, "Your Majesty," and Maya and Damian froze. Maya  _ isn't  _ supposed to be here. He gave her instructions to keep an eye on Emiko's family and the political climate, and while Jason may be authorized to be here, Maya certainly isn't.   
  
Damian locks eyes with Maya, and with a jerk of her head she shimmers into nonexistence. The door opens and a butler steps through, respectfully keeping his eyes on Damian's chest.   
  
"My prince," he says softly, "the king requests your presence."   
  
Damian's pulse leaps like lightning. "I see," he says calmly, belying his nervousness. "Please inform him I will be there in five minutes."   
  
The butler bows. "Yes, your majesty."

The door clicks shut behind him as he goes to do the task Damian gave him.   
  
Maya flickers into view, her magic sparking off her. "What the fuck," she says, eyes wide as she stares at him.   
  
"I don't know," Damian sighs, rolling his shoulders back and stepping into his sandals. "But I presume Grandfather wishes for me to do something."   
  
"But he sends  _ Jason _ for that," Maya hisses, looking close to sabbing something with a poisoned knife. She tends to do that when stressed.   
  
"Then it is something else," Damian says, and straightens his robe, closing his eyes as he readies himself for teleportation to near Grandfather's magic, as massive and drowning as ever.   
  
Maya grabs his arm. "You are not going there without me," she says, as immovable as gravity, and Damian gives her a small smile.   
  
"Okay."   
  
A swirl of gold, and they're standing before the doors to Grandfather's office. Maya vanishes next to him as he knocks on the door.   
  
"Come in," comes his king's voice, and Damian hesitates for one fraction of a second, hand on the handle.   
  
Well. He can't really refuse the king can he.   
  
He opens the door, Maya tense beside him, hands on her knives.   
  
Grandfather smiles at him, signing a paper and putting with a stack of completed work as he stands.   
  
"Damian," he says warmly, and Damian manages a weak smile back.   
  
"Grandfather," he replies, ready to run and grab Maya if necessary. If he left her here she'd surely fight Grandfather and his king would  _ destroy _ her.

 

That smile widens into a grin, and,  _ oh, _ Damian dreads what Grandfather will say next.   
  
"Lady Shado is no more," he says gleefully, and Damian's heart stops.   
  
"What," he says as delicately as he can, "exactly do you mean by no more?"   
  
Grandfather waves a hand, as though dismissing the notion. "I sent your mother after her, with orders to mentally harm her but not to kill her." His grin turns dark and twisted and Damian wants to take a step back, but he can't, he's frozen in place in terror as Grandfather's magic builds and builds. He can't  _ breathe. _ "Lady Emiko will have to find ways to pay for her mother's treatment while paying for her living." Grandfather ruffles his hair. "Excellent, isn't it?"   
  
Damian stares at him, eyes wide. When Grandfather says mentally harm, he means that Lady Shado can no longer  _ speak _ properly. She might not be able to recognize her own daughter.   
  
"Isn't it," Grandfather repeats, voice turning hard, and Damian snaps back into reality, forcing a smirk even as his stomach rolls.   
  
"Indeed," he says, and Grandfather laughs.   
  
"I'd say that a month is good enough punishment. You need to practice for the coming of age ceremony," he says, as though he's thinking aloud, but all Damian hears is  _ freedom. _   
  
"Am I ungrounded, as it is?" he asks, scarcely daring to believe it, and Grandfather nods.   
  
He's free. He's free and can help Emiko and go talk to Jon and  _ leave the palace. _ __   
  
A grin steals across Damian's face even as horror races through him. "Thank you, Grandfather."   
  
His king only sends him out the door.   
  
Maya follows, watching as he slumps against the wall, running a hand through his hair and trying not to scream at what his family did.   
  
"It was to be expected," she says, sympathetic to his reaction. "It's rather common. Watch someone crash and burn as they try to care and provide for themselves and their loved ones."

"It's horrible," Damian gasps out, tangling his hands in his hair. He's seen it happen more times than he can count; on the streets on his missions, a child trying so hard to be the one who provides when they don't know what to do, starving because they don't know how to get food, magic frail and fragile like cracked china, nothing like how magic should be.   
  
Maya lays a hand on his shoulder. "I know," she says, impossibly gentle, and Damian slides to the floor. Emiko's strong magic will wither and die and he can't -   
  
She's going to need help. Help that Damian can  _ give  _ because he's the prince and he has the resources to do it.   
  
"I'm going to help her," he says, determined and unbending, and Maya tightens her grip on his shoulder.   
  
"That's what I'd figure you'd say," she says lightly, a smile playing on her lips. "You're too nice for this kingdom, Damian."   
  
Damian scoffs, mind already racing for ways to help. "I wouldn't say nice."   
  
Maya laughs, pulling away and starting to turn see through. "Kind, then."   
  
"I wouldn't say kind either."   
  
Maya shakes her head just as her magic finishes it's job. "You're too hard on yourself." Then she's gone, a slight color lingering in the air the only indication she was ever there.   
  
Damian stares after her, breathing out heavily through his nose as he contemplates her words. He's not nice, nor is he kind. He can't afford to be. He had a nanny, when he was younger, one who spoke to him with affectionately, who gave him toys that he could snuggle with. She taught him that he could he compassionate, that he  _ should _ be kindhearted.   
  
_ My prince, _ she had told him one time, smiling at him and pulling him close, hiding the twist of her lips in his hair,  _ there is love in this world. You have to show that it can happen. _

_ Do you love me? _ Damian had asked innocent and wondering, and she had laughed weakly, her arms tightening around him. Her voice had trembled when she answered.   
  
_ I do, _ she had breathed into his hair. I love you so very much.   
  
She had disappeared not long after that. Grandfather had struck him when he asked of her whereabouts, but his magic had been rising and falling and oh so very happy. Damian hadn't asked again.   
  
Her magic had been like sunshine on his skin, a soft wind curling around him. Her magic had been too soft for this world.   
  
He was never told her name. He used to wonder, though, and even now he does, occasionally.  Her hair shined like spun gold and her eyes were like the richest soil. She was a treasure, the earth given human form. And then she was gone.   
  
Damian buries his face in his hands, sliding down until he's on the ground, shoulders shaking. He was too young to know what had happened to her, but he figured it out when he was three. And suddenly it made sense, the sudden absence of her sunshine magic.   
  
By the kings, she shouldn't have shown him kindness. Maybe then she would be here.

He takes in a shuddering breath, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his arms on them, staring at the wall. He sighs, just a bit. What did lingering on the past give him? It only makes the ache in his chest worse, make it harder to breathe when he thinks of those he failed, when he has to do something despicable.   
  
Damian pushes himself to his feet, eyes drooping a bit as he stares at the wall. He wants to leave.   
  
Maybe - maybe he could send a letter to Jon, tell him he's able to leave, and ask if he wants to meet in the wall.   
  
That sounds nice. Jon is someone he likes, someone who doesn't know just what Damian has done so many times before. They could even go to the tea place.   
  
Damian nods sharply, then turns on his heel to head to his room. He has a letter to write, a friend to meet, and a face to push to the back of his mind to the best of his ability.

His legs waver and he catches himself on the wall, staring down at the white marble floor under his feet. It's accented with gold,sweeping vines spreading from the wall to the floor with flowers blooming on them, shining petals reaching outwards. He's always been fascinated with them, ever since he was deemed old enough to come here.

He closes his eyes, something aching behind his eyes. It's been a long month and an even longer year; there's been so much placed on his shoulders, so much responsibility and duties thrust upon him that he sometimes feels as though he's drowning. Mother is right; life is never easy in the sun kingdom, not even for the royals.

He sighs and straightens, steeling his expression before anyone can see him. Rumors catch like fire in the palace, and it won't do for him to have any more.

Three years old is too young to understand the tales being whispered from ear to ear, hushed falsities not echoing in the halls.

_ Demon child, _ the servants hissed after seeing him covered in blood and holding a sword, staring down at his first casualty.  _ What a little demon child, _ they said through their teeth when they thought he wasn't listening.

_ What a lucky boy, _ murmured the citizens, bitter and angry.  _ What an incredibly lucky boy. _

Damian snorts and his magic rises, a tornado of sparks coming up around him and he opens his eyes to the wall, tall and imposing and so very sure. Magic radiates off it, the very same he’s grown up with since he was old enough to know what exactly he was sensing. He’s never been able to tell what exactly he senses when he pays attention enough; by now, he finds it comforting. It’s a white noise to every other magical signature.

When he was younger, merely a babe, he had whimpered when other’s magic, so uncontrolled, so unlocked, had come near him. He couldn’t stand his mother, screamed when she came near him because he was terrified and sick to the stomach. Mother had decided to resolve this, and when he was two he had been put to training, given a sword and given katas. It had helped, the mindless repetitions, the burn in his muscles. Everything else had faded away and he was - not at peace, exactly, but content.

Damian’s lips twitch up as he removes the stone from the small hole and climbs inside. Every other magical signature fades away as he seals the entrance behind him, and he breathes a bit easier. The ancient magic pulses around him, wraps itself around him. He doesn’t mind the taste of magic that much when he’s in the wall.

“Damian!”

Stretchy, elastic, sticky magic reaches out to him, a bonfire of excitement and happiness, and Damian can feel his smile soften into something more calm.

That’s Jon’s magic, Jon’s voice, and Damian’s never been more happy to sense magic like that. Freedom, sings the wall. Freedom, freedom!

_ Yeah, _ Damian thinks fondly as Jon barrels into him, laughing loudly with joy.  _ Freedom for a bit sounds nice. _

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always loved and brighten up my day and are saved in my Gmail.
> 
> Also! Here's my [Tumblr.](http://nikescaret.tumblr.com) Come visit and chat with me if you want!
> 
> Commissions for my writing are open! Message me on my Tumblr so we can talk about it.


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